


Song as Old as Rhyme

by Ridiculosity



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Beauty and the Beast Fusion, Beauty and the Beast AU, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, General Domesticity, Kidnap!Fic, Kidnapping, Mild Fluff, Porn, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Slow Burn, Trapping, a burn so slow global warming is gonna be put to shame, guys im not gonna lie, like a real kicker slow burn, serious themes of consent, this is gonna be harsh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-07-07
Updated: 2019-03-25
Packaged: 2019-06-06 17:07:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 14
Words: 56,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15199493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ridiculosity/pseuds/Ridiculosity
Summary: Hush, the wind is blowing hard.Be quiet, child, sleep soundly -Or the Dark One will steal your heart.[Molliarty, Beauty and the Beast AU. Rating hiked after chapter 13]





	1. Cops and Robbers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [BurningLostStars](https://archiveofourown.org/users/BurningLostStars/gifts).



> This is a super, super belated birthday present for one of my favourite people in the world - Ronnie (Burningloststars). She's an absolutely wonderful, kick ass, philosophy freak. I love her very much. 
> 
> And she loves Beauty and the Beast AUs, particularly featuring her favourite couple - Jim Moriarty and Molly Hooper. Can't say I disagree. 
> 
> I do want to warn everyone reading: this fic won't be gentle on ideas of consent, kidnapping, trapping someone against their will. This will not gloss over the darker aspects of this fairy tale. Where its easier to forget that Belle was trapped by someone who wasn't being particularly kind to her, I will not let you forget it. There's a reason I put this on a very high rating. 
> 
> And I'll do my best to make this as slow burny as possible. This is going to be a difficult ride. Strap in, folks.

_Hush, the wind is blowing still._

_The sun is falling softly –_

_The Dark One looks to kill._

_Hush, the wind is blowing hard._

_Be quiet, child, sleep soundly_

_Or the Dark One will steal your heart._

* * *

 

She was stumbling over the ice, and she knew it.

Her boots didn’t help her at all, not one bit. She knew it would have been more prudent to buy new boots, of course – but Molly Hooper was not known for her prudence in matters of expense.

Her cloak fluttered idly in the wind that the winter had bestowed.

She tried her best to ineffectually bring it a little closer to her shoulders, to tighten the warmth around her, to fold into herself and vanish into the landscape. It often happened with certain souls – with certain music, with certain people.

She tripped over one of the tree roots she had indiscriminately been ignoring for the past few hours.

She had come to be alone. To be quiet. To be silent. For the landscape to whisper into her, the snow to disappear into her veins. She didn’t know quite what she had been searching for, but she knew that she was determined to find some mandrake on this day.

And it was getting late.

Molly had a tendency to little regard these things. For many years, she was rather an avoided personage in the small hamlet of Little Strobesworth. She had nothing to do with anyone, she had nothing to say to anyone apart from the baker who brought his bread – and perhaps a few words to be shared with the bookkeeper who was kept busy acquiring books for her. They said her father was an eccentric – and that her taste in books itself, quite something that raised a few eyebrows. Mr. Tatterstall, had, in fact, gossiped openly about the Little Miss Hooper’s choice taste in papers that were bound and filled with medical discussions of the most scandalous nature. He assured the village that nothing good could come of it.

And yet, The Little Hooper persisted. Long after her sister disappeared with some lesser known respectable gentleman to some other little hamlet close to Harrowgate. That her sister had, in fact, endeavoured to go south of the Northumberlands had surprised no one – these Hoopers, were, after all, quite odd and decidedly unworthy of their Northern accents.

No one was sure whether the younger Hooper had an accent, however, for she spoke so little and to very few. There had been an incident a year back – with a young man. An outsider, of course – none of the well bred village boys would ever think of casting an eye on the Little Hooper, although many owned to find her slightly ethereal presence a little enchanting. This was summarily dismissed as a witches’ ploy, and Hooper retreated even further into her isolated little cottage.

Snow built around the cottage steadily, for she never bothered leaving after a certain point. She did not attempt to attend the Christmas Masses. She was lost, forever, in the building ice – in the words that were wrapped around her head that seem to give her that ethereal appearance that boys found so enchanting.

Molly wasn’t otherworldly. She was just unacceptable.

She looked upward at the sky. She bent down at the bushes, picking a few leaves gently.

“No business, staying here, Molly,” she told herself. So used to her society, that she simply spoke to herself. “Ought to be heading home, you should.”

She looked around.

The sun was falling rapidly, for the sky was clouded over. It looked a little like a curtain, Molly felt. Like something waiting to happen.

The firs rustled gently – ice crunching under her boot, the soft capers of silence becoming evident more and more. Music, perhaps, which was waiting to be heard by someone willing to listen.

Unfortunately there was a single, slightly unwilling audience. Molly was trying her best to get home – and looking worriedly over her shoulder for the storm approaching her with the pace of what can only be called dangerous.

“Oh, heavens,” she whispered.

Her feet were treading fast, but not in the correct direction. Firs were useless for cover, and at this point, there was nothing stopping her from getting caught in the storm. She felt certain she had spied a little shed from an abandoned cottage some yards ahead – and she didn’t think anyone would miss her, should she spend the night there.

Molly walked towards the shed – hoping, beyond all hope, that her poor sense of direction will not made itself known on this night of all nights. She had, however, been walking for almost twenty minutes before she realised it had.

She looked up at the sky in despair.

“You’re in a fix now, Molly,” she said quietly.

And as she decided to climb the top of a hill to look and find herself, small flakes of snow started descending.

“Ah. Death by cold. Appropriate,” she said. Her feet wrenched every time she lifted them, and she reached the top. In front of her, was, as odd as if it had been invisible for a long, _long_ time – a manor. It wasn’t very large, but not shabby – besides, Molly could not quite gamble away what was certainly the only shelter she had because it did not resemble a castle.

She did look upon the thing with some suspicion, however.

Molly had the strangest feeling that it had never been there. That it had appeared simply because she had been looking.

* * *

 

The story, of course, is the oldest in history.

The stone steps of the manor – had they ever been present, had disappeared entirely under a sheet of snow. There was nothing for Molly to do but knock persistently and find herself without anyone responding. She opened the door softly, noticing the unkempt appearance of the manor – and decided the occupants may not be there to receive her.

The door opened, of course. It opened like music. Like water through a small stream. Like snow flakes. Like a whisper.

“Is anyone home?” called Molly.

And that, perhaps, is where the story changes.

* * *

 

As soon as she said it, she was curiously aware of her voice echoing across the walls of the room. As soon as she said it, the trees seem to have become quieter than they were, the air seemed to become quieter as well. Not still, but quiet. Expecting something.

A shudder ran down her back. She spied an old but serviceable chair and approached it.

Her shoes clacked against the floor.

The echoes may have been hers, someone else's, someone from a time before – or perhaps, her own, from yet another time – from yet another place that she had nearly forgotten.

She attempted to quell her fear by settling into the chair – and the darkness stole on her.

It cornered her – embracing her, folding into her.

“Ah,” came a voice, rich with a lack of use. “An intruder.”

Molly jumped from her chair.

“What a wonderful surprise,” continued the voice. She shivered quietly, turning sharply to locate it.

“I must confess,” the voice wafted around her, “that you amuse me greatly.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Molly quickly – and to no one in particular. She twister with every second, for she was certain, perfectly certain – that the voice came from the dark. And the dark was everywhere. “I was – I was lost – and I – I –”

“You found a nice property to occupy. Most understandable,” said the voice sympathetically.

Every part of Molly’s body was alert with the fact that the voice meant no sympathy.

“So tell me, my dear,” said the voice, finally becoming something solid.

Molly’s fingers shook, shook, shook. She took a deep, shuddering breath, as the darkness receded to reveal something a lot more sinister.

“What would your name be?”

And the man was smiling, his teeth bright and gleaming and quite straight and not fanglike. They were far more terrifying that way.

* * *

 

Molly swallowed.

“Molly. Molly Hooper,” she said, finally.

“A very charming name,” he said. Her circled her.

Molly thought it wise to say nothing.

“So, Miss Hooper – it is Miss, I presume?” asked the man in a gentlemanly way.

Molly nodded, scarcely trusting herself to speak.

“How do you find my enchanted manor? Not quite an enchanted castle, but it does the job.”

“Yes, sir,” Molly mumbled.

“You find yourself stealing from the grounds of an enchanted castle,” said the man with an air of quiet amusement. “And one does not encounter an enchanted castle without being trapped.”

It was in that moment that everything became perfectly clear to Molly.

“Sir – Sir – please,” she began.

“Do entreat me to think of your family, my dear, I’ll find it most amusing.”

“No – I – sir – I do not signify in the least to you, I’m sure – ple – please turn me out,” said Molly, unable to stop herself from going warm in the face. Her eyes were burning hot, and then – as if not by her design, she was crying.

“One does not turn out people in storms such as this, Miss Hooper,” said the man. “And you will find that I have been very bored in the last few centuries. You will do well to amuse, I trust – and you might last a little longer than the previous ones, if you are smart enough.”

Molly swallowed.

“Sir – I – _please,”_ she begged softly.

“You beg very sweetly,” said the man. “Would you prefer that I show you what I mean by cutting out your tongue.”

“Sir – you cannot – I have –”

And before she knew it, she found her arms had snapped to her sides. Her body, unable to move, her tongue, curling in her mouth, and her fear, raging through her body.

“Tread carefully, Miss Hooper.”

Molly stopped crying in that minute. Her fear, which had been unbelievable a minute ago – calmed. Her body, which had been terrified at losing mobility – understood very clearly where she stood.

“Your thoughts betray you, Miss Hooper,” said the man. “You wish to escape? I promise, it is impossible. But I give you leave to try. Do your best.”

Molly looked at her shoes.

“Any family I should know of, Molly?” asked the man.

Molly shuddered at the use of her name.

“A sister.”

He looked at her with an eyebrow raised.

“Please make sure she doesn’t come here,” said Molly in a small, resigned voice.

He stepped close to her, and it took all the will power in Molly to not step back instinctively. He plucked a hair from her head, and Molly flinched.

His fingers snapped.

In front of her, there was a small, ghostly copy of Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Elizabeth. Elizabeth.

“ _Elizabeth,”_ whispered Molly.

 “I would dare venture to say, Miss Hooper, that your sister was considered the beauty?” asked the man genially.

Molly nodded dumbly.

“And where would she be? In your village?”

Molly shook her head. “Yorkshire,” she promised.

“Good for her,” commended the man. “How often do you speak to her, if I may intrude?”

Molly didn’t reply.

“Good response,” said the man. “I sense, then, that you told me to keep her away for rather noble reasons, dear.” He looked perfectly delighted by the idea. “I love the noble ones. A lot more interesting.”

“And what am I to do here, sir?” asked Molly, ignoring the jibes.

He tilted his head a little to regard her.

“Why, clean, of course. Cook. Organise. I require someone to do a little _work_ here, Miss Hooper.”

Molly kept looking at her boots.

“Very poor boots,” he commented. “Quite shoddy.”

She hid one boot behind another, her hands pressed to her front, and her head bent.

“Let’s have a look at you, then.”

She didn’t know how she knew, how she could tell – but she turned on the spot. She felt something pressing into her – something quite uncontrollable, but tightly wound.

“Some spells. To keep you in your place,” clarified the man with a lot of gentility.

Molly shook in her boots.

“Any rules?” she continued.

“Good to see you warming to the idea,” said the man. “Avoid the west wing. Of course, if you choose not to avoid it – it is entirely up to you, but I have found that I tend to fly into a rage at times, when that happens.”

Molly didn’t say anything.

“And, ideally, try your best to keep me interested.”

Molly didn’t make any promises.

“Lastly,” grinned the man sharply, “You are not allowed to fall in love with me.”

Molly bit her lip.

“And what of you, sir?” said her quiet voice.

It rang on the walls.

“What of me?”

“Are you allowed to fall in love with me?” she said.

Her eyes lifted up, for the briefest, smallest second.

And the man gave her a small smile.

“Well met, Molly Hooper.”

* * *

 

She stepped behind him as softly as she could. He made not even the slightest noise, which was eerie – Molly’s boots were loud on the floors of the house, incapable of falling silent.

She had the most curious sensation that someone was watching her. Whoever it could be, she did not know.

“Follow me,” the man had said quietly. She half expected him to disappear into nothingness once again, to disappear into the story’s pages and become nothing more than the darkness that stayed with her.

And she had followed. She had followed, her feet dragging, her head aching, her fingers buzzing with the encounter. She was in incomparable pain, in a way that she had not felt for so long a time. She wondered, idly, how long it would take for the village to realise she had disappeared – how long, for her sister to send her a letter that would not be responded to for months –

 _Years,_ her mind whispered traitorously.

They wouldn’t know, she told herself savagely. They won’t know of the monster in the manor – and she was a recluse herself, with no visitors for the whole of the winter. She only thing she attended was Christmas Mass and that was more for the sake of her father than anyone else. The village wouldn’t care that she had missed one year of many. They wouldn’t pay attention. No one was looking. Not even Elizabeth.

_Elizabeth._

She hugged her arms closer to herself.

The manor was ice itself. She had the sensation that it had been years since light had touched some of the objects, that the manor had simply dropped out of time and flickered out of existence – only to appear for wayward travellers who looked for shelter. It trapped them. It remained with them. It haunted them.

Molly looked upward, at the tall ceilings of the house, decorated from a time she couldn’t place.

“Early eighteenth century,” said the man, sounding pleased. “Late Restoration.”

Molly chewed her lips.

And then they reached the higher levels – there were cold, cold, rooms. She was assuming they were servant quarters at some time, but as of now – they looked a lot more like they were simply prisons. There was even a nondescript pile of hay in the corner.

“Get comfortable,” said her captor.

“Sir – please – wait,” Molly said hurriedly.

He looked at her inquiringly.

“What am I to call you?” she said finally.

He was scanning her with his eyes, looking across every pore of her skin and watching her carefully. “When you are in the house, my dear, you may call me ‘Sir’ or ‘Master,’ if you want to really arouse me.”

Molly’s heart dropped.

“And when you are outside, you may refer to me as ‘The Dark One,’ for the benefit of the public,” he continued.

Molly rolled the words in her mind. _The Dark One. The Dark One._ She had heard this legend before.

And then he gripped her by her forearm, dragger her close, so that she could smell him – death, a little bit of peppermint, and what was unquestionably the smell of the dark. Darkness smelled exactly as you would think it did – of forgotten words, of small animals – that had gotten lost in the woods, and of whispers.

His lips were close to her ear. His breath was unbelievably soft.

“When you are conspiring my dear, when you are searching for friends and foes – you may call me _Moriarty.”_

And he was gone almost instantly. Molly touched her arm, feeling for the grip of the name, that had undoubtedly inserted itself into her blood stream.

_Moriarty._


	2. Playing Houses

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello!! I missed you guys, and luckily, I am keeping up with my schedule. Thank you so much for all the positive responses! I am quite blown away, and a little surprised.
> 
> ANYWAY ENJOY THIS CHAPTER WHICH IS GOING TO MAKE SURE YOU GUYS KNOW JUST HOW SLOW BURN THIS FIC WILL BE.

It was freezing.

Molly was certain that she’d unlock some horrible disease, which had probably been lying dormant for generations in the room. There was nothing in it – the barest, plainest of rooms – and quite boringly decorated as well. Molly noticed that the rickety bed was perhaps a few centuries old, and slightly infested with termites. The wood would have fallen apart, unable to hold her.

The hay – she wasn’t sure how long it had been since it had been sunned and cleaned. She didn’t want to take too much of a chance with that either.

She found the warmest corner in the room – the smallest scrap of a floor, and cuddled into her cloak.

That was when she let herself the luxury of tears.

“Oh, Molly,” she murmured. “Where have you found yourself now.”

And she cried. She cried freely. She cried indiscriminately. She cried to relieve herself of all the pain in the world, she cried because it was the only way to achieve some kind of silence.

And she slept fitfully.

* * *

 

She woke the next morning to the blank whiteness of the sky. The window of the room was not open, but beautifully clouded over – and dusty, besides. She could see the white of the sky.

“Good morning, Molly,” she said, to the ceiling.

She got up finally – and looked outside the window. It had to be a little late for the light to be so visible.

She put her boots on, got rid of her cloak and the constant shivering of her body.

“Into battle.”

* * *

 

The manor was reticent to her. Unresponsive. Unwilling to help her. She felt the air of distrust as strongly as she felt the cold in the house.

She had no idea where Moriarty had headed off to. She didn’t even know where he slept. She didn’t know anything about this house, and she didn’t know what to do.

“Come on, Molly.”

She dusted her chilled hands, and headed downstairs, hoping against all hope that the house would permit her to find her way. She could swear it was watching her.

And so she found herself in the upper East wing, once in the hall, once in the dining room and frequently in unknown rooms. The house would not give itself up.

“Please,” she whispered. “Look – I know you don’t like me, but I have to find the kitchen, or I don’t know what he might do.”

The wood of the house creaked, the wind whistling through the cracks softly.

She made another turn, took another staircase – and shut her eyes.

She walked blind – onwards, and onwards, and onwards, and onwards – until she crashed into the cutlery cabinet.

She smiled.

* * *

 

The kitchen was as bare as the rest of the house. She didn’t think there was absolutely anything to eat, and she wasn’t sure where she was supposed to conjure food up from nowhere. It was the middle of winter – not a single animal was alive and ready to be hunted. She didn’t think there was not a thing to cook.

Nevertheless, she persisted.

She cleaned the kitchen – lifted the broom, swept the floor, tidied the shelves (finding many jars of different spices, and a few jars of what could only be called potion ingredients. Monkshood and wolfsbane, eyes and ears, and what was definitely her brown strand of hair. She didn’t shudder at the jars, she cleaned.

The cutlery cabinet was rearranged, the dining table cleaned. She didn’t have enough time to polish the silver, but the China was hauled into the sinks – over sputtering, icy water, she washed everything.

By the end of the morning, the kitchen looked respectable. There were empty cupboards which had cracks, and she hadn’t the time to mend them. She had found a store of wheat, and a little yeast besides. The oven was charred and burned, but Molly had done her best. What she needed was lemons to clean it – something acidic, to scorch it clean. Something poisonous.

She ground the wheat by hand, prepared the dough slowly, slowly, and then hoped for the best.

She brought her own satchel from her “room,” and took out the mandrake she had collected, wondering whether she could cook it. She had only ever used it as medicine.

She sighed, and put her cloak on. She had to find some food before dinner, or she might be dinner.

As soon as she stepped outside the backdoor, she shivered.

This manor did not like her.

The back yard was snow, entirely snow. But she wasn’t too worried. Old houses such as this – they were bound to have a vegetable patch.

She surveyed the grounds critically. The fencing suggested, normally, where the vegetables had been grown. Molly trudged across the yard, to the garden shed – and pulled out some old spades. She didn’t have enough upper body strength to dig through the icy ground, but she had to try. She had to try.

And so, she used her gloved hands to first dig through the snow. She pushed the white, burning ice away from the patch she was aiming for – dragging away layers and layers of water to find the dark patchy ground.

And she dug.

She attempted to do her best, but the ground was so cold. It was so terribly hard. It was so impossible.

She looked up at the sky, pressed her hands together.

“You can do this, Molly,” she told herself.

And she remembered the straight white teeth of her Master.

The ground cracked open.

* * *

 

She brought three cold, mouldy potatoes. It was the best she could do.

She took out whatever vegetables she had, whatever she could find, loaded the pot – placed the bread into the oven, and she began to prepare the soup. She’d found a few onions in the patch, which had been lucky – and they also had looked terribly old. They had probably grown spontaneously during the summer, and been forgotten – buried under the snow.

The house was rumbling.

“Look, I know you’re upset,” she said. “But I have to cook _something.”_

There were small murmurs.

“I’d get _murdered,”_ she promised the house.

She wasn’t sure why she was speaking to the house, a house she hated so completely – and one which seemed to hate her. There was no one else to speak to.

* * *

 

At dinner, Molly laid out the cutlery – the single fork, knife and spoon she had managed to polish, and the dusty glass that she had poured some wine in. Meagre food it was, but she had nothing more to give. Mentally, she was considering what on earth was supposed to do about tomorrow.

And then the darkness descended.

Molly kept herself from wincing involuntarily when the felt a shadow caress her chin.

“Looks delicious, Little Molly,” it said to her.

She shut her eyes while the darkness became solid. She kept them tightly closed.

Moriarty had appeared, in his neat suit, his impeccable waistcoat, and his Hessians.

“I am mildly impressed,” he confessed softly. “The last one only about managed to make some bread. And the dining room looks clean, does it not?” the question seemed to be addressed to the house, which creaked indignantly.

Molly glared at the ceiling.

“Now, now,” he said. “Credit where it is due.”

And he settled down on the table.

Molly rushed to serve him. She sliced the mealy, hard bread, and poured out the soup. He looked rather amused.

He was slow in eating. Slow, terribly slow.

And Molly was chewing her nails.

“You ought to have less noisy boots, Molly,” he said pleasantly.

“Sir – these are – these are warm,” Molly muttered.

His eyes glittered dangerously.

“And are you cold?”

Molly swallowed tightly. She nodded.

He tilted his head to the side.

“What would you do for a bit of warmth, Miss Hooper?” he asked.

Molly pressed her hands together.

“I do wonder, Molly, if you fear for your virtue.”

Molly didn’t tell him how terrified she was of that. How incredibly scared that he would take what was not his.

“Have no fear, Molly. No one will harm your virtue – whether it is I, or anyone else,” promised Moriarty.

“And I have your promise to keep for that?” she asked quietly.

She was rewarded with a dark look. If she was searching carefully, a slight grimace. A little disgust.

“No, I do not choose to be cruel where the cruelty cannot be returned,” he said. “Taking what was never mine to begin with is out of the question, for no one can quite return the favour. Murder on the other hand – easily reciprocated, and a lot more fun.”

“Very kind of you, sir,” said Molly with a small trace of irony.

He was smiling again.

“You find me hypocritical,” he said.

“You’re not a good man because you draw the line at rape,” stated Molly.

He was looking at her critically. “You should sleep, Molly Hooper. The night grows darker, and the cold more pronounced.”

* * *

 

On the second day, Molly prepared a dinner with some pine cones. The wheat was mouldy, and the yeast old, but she was trying her best. She was doing whatever she could with what little she had.

She cleaned the kitchen, she polished the chandeliers in the dining room, the silver ware in the cupboards. With no help from the house, of course. She cleaned the hallway, and then began to take apart some of the older furniture – using the wood to repair the cracks in the cupboard. The snow in the back yard had to be cleared, salvaged for whatever summer vegetables she could find, the streams that had become ice for some fish. Molly foraged and looked, fought for everything from her breath to her food – in a house that crashed whatever cutlery she’d leave on the table.

And she’d cry.

She’d cry every night, without fail. The tears came so naturally, so comfortably – that she wondered when they would ever stop. When any of this would ever stop.

She missed her cottage.

She missed the comfortable chairs, the warm fire, the books – the larder stocked with food, the more than one warm jumper.

By the end of the week, Moriarty had smiled at her sharply, and handed her the keys to the linen closet. Molly had gritted her teeth, said nothing, and taken out some blankets for herself. She sunned the hay, cleaned it, put it under a sheet – and wrapped herself a little more warmly at night.

The fact was that her greatest enemy here was the house – unwilling to accept her, unhappy with the treatment it was undergoing – and uneasy about the way she ran things. It hissed whenever she tried to do anything. One night, after slaving away at the food – she’d found all her hard work in the sink. She’d burst into angry tears that night, had suffered the amusing laugh of the master as he promised her no sleep that night, and then had not slept.

All night.

She was testing the limits of her trap, simultaneously. When she pushed her hand experimentally out of the window – burn marks appeared.

 _He_ had laughed the next morning when he saw her.

Molly decided to do her best with whatever she could.

She cleaned the study next, prepared some acid solutions and threw herself into the oven. Part of her was hoping to contract something terrible so she may die. But she felt that she may not be allowed to do so.

A part of her knew that her mind had not accepted what had happened. She kept believing she was somewhere else – this was happening to someone else. To someone more stupid. To someone more inclined to be caught.

That she was expecting to be let out of this mess at some point.

“This is not your story,” she told herself. “This is not your story. This is not your story.”

She missed _reading._

She had spied books in the study, but she didn’t have a moment as of now. The house was at war with her, and she had to clean it. She had to suffer the looks of amusement, and the complete certainty she had that this was only the beginning. That it was going to get worse.

* * *

 

That evening, she had cleaned the study.

It had taken an age, and it was yet to be completed. She had mended the sofas, she had rid the room of dust and cobwebs – cleaned the fireplace and broken the chimney open. She had done everything in her power to clear out the ornaments and set pieces, to repair the damage done to the house.

She was satisfied with the work. A part of her knew that she was throwing herself so completely into the work simply because she had nothing else to do, because it was a good way to occupy herself.

The house was angry. It was rustling. Molly had pulled the books from the shelves, she had cleaned them.

Molly had served the master quietly. He seemed a little thoughtful that night, hadn’t sparred with her verbally – and had let her leave once she had eaten.

When she went upstairs, she found herself in her room – where the sheets had been torn to shreds, the blankets vanished, and the window open. Everything was frozen.

Molly looked at her room. She looked again. She looked again, and again, and again.

Her exhausted, tired hands touched the sheets gently.

She felt to her knees. Her hands weren’t pressed together; she wasn’t attempting to gather fortitude.

“I’m sorry,” she told the house. “I’m sorry. I hate it here, I don’t want to do this – I don’t want to be here. God, I miss Mother. I miss her so much, do you know? She used to laugh whenever the winter started coming, and she would tell Father that the Gods were dissatisfied with him again. Oh, _God._ She –” Molly began to cry. “She would – she wo – would – she would read me _stories._ She was so _kind.”_

The house was, for once, silent.

“You’re not kind,” said Molly vengefully. “You aren’t kind. You aren’t nice. You never will be. Is he the monster, or is it you? I wonder if he made you this way – I wonder if you didn’t do this on purpose.”

She fell to her side, curling her knees close to her chest. She closed her eyes, didn’t bother taking off her shoes, with tears dripping down from her eyes.

* * *

 

The next morning, the house was silent again. Not a word had been said.

Molly found the blankets hanging by a chair in her room.

* * *

 

And then, funnily enough – they became partners.

“I can’t do this alone,” she told the house. “You know I can’t.”

The house creaked an assent.

They began together. Molly found brooms moving by themselves, shovels digging the yard carefully. Molly ordered the pots and pans about, tired, properly, of soup. She made pies with some squirrel meat, and asked the house if it could grind the wheat.

They prepared the flour together, and Molly entered the study to organise the shelves.

“What do you think, by title or author?” she asked, looking down at the books.

The house murmured.

“Certainly not by how likely we’d use them to make a fire!” Molly admonished, at once. “I would say author,” she continued. “It’s a good way to use a shelf.”

The house sighed.

“You needn’t agree,” said Molly crossly. She began organising the books alphabetically, in order of author name.

* * *

 

She was counting the days in her head when he had called.

On the first day, she had salvaged dinner. On the second day, she had cleaned the oven. On the third day, she had polished all the silver. On the fourth day she had cleaned the yard.

Three weeks, she noted to herself.

Three weeks for her to gain some trust from the house. Three weeks since she had seen her cottage.

She looked at the burns on her arms.

It had taken her such a long while to heal them in this cold.

The house was whispering again. It became restless when the Master returned. Things shifted arbitrarily. Molly found herself nudged by a broom.

“Oh. Where?” she asked. She paused for the house to whisper in her ear, and then headed to the study.

He was leaning against the fire, looking into the flames. When Molly entered, she smoothed the non-existent folds of her grimy dress, and stood near the door.

“Impressive work,” he said quietly.

Molly nodded perfunctorily.

“I will admit, you did more in three weeks than the others. Then again, the others didn’t bother speaking to the souls in the house, of course.”

Molly didn’t say anything.

“Be seated, Miss Hooper.”

Miss Hooper. He was feeling combative.

Molly settled down on one of the chairs she had painstakingly aired out and mended.

“How has your stay been so far?”

“Uneventful,” she said.

His eyes were glittering again.

“That depends on how you define an event.”

“I did much the same in my cottage. I cleaned. I cooked. I mended. I had to do lesser, admittedly – but not everyone can maintain a good house,” she said.

He sat down opposite her. The fire roared between them.

“Could I ask you something?” said Molly.

“Didn’t you already?”

She didn’t crack a smile. He grinned, and gestured for her to continue.

“How is the house the way it is?”

Moriarty leaned back in his chair, his fingertips touching delicately.

“The manor, as you may have noticed, is enchanted,” he said glibly.

“Don’t joke with me, sir,” she said quietly. The wood of the house was soft in what it was saying – quiet, wordless, almost like a whisper.

“It finds travellers. It finds wayward stories. It collects them.”

“ _You_ collect them.”

He smiled nastily. “Indeed.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

“Entertainment. And I cannot help grant the house some of its little wishes.”

Molly tapped her fingers.

“Are you not afraid, Little Molly?” he asked softly.

“I was,” she said, staring into the fire. “I still am. I don’t pretend I’m not. I can’t do much with the fear, though.”

He was tilting her head when he regarded her. In the time to come, Molly would know that this was a sign of profound interest.

“And who waits for you, at home?” he asked.

“No one,” she said.

“No one?” continued Moriarty.

“No, sir.”

“Father, mother, _male-_ friend?”

Molly shuddered.

“None,” she said. “Just like you.”

He was looking at her with twinkling eyes.

Molly thought of how little she had wanted to look into his face, how she felt instinctively cold when she considered her Master. Even now – with his grey eyes sparkling.

“Careful, Little Molly,” he said softly.

And she returned to the fire.

“I do wonder how you speak its language,” murmured Moriarty.

Molly shrugged. “You can understand any language, if you put your mind to it. It just speaks one without words.”

“Do you prefer that, Miss Hooper?” he asked interestedly.

“My words have never belonged to me,” said Molly, more to the fire than to him. “They belonged to everyone else. They belonged to my father, my sister, anyone who was not me. My words – my words have not been mine, because they were never made to be mine. They were created by you, for you.”

He was looking at her with his head tilted again. His lips were pursed.

“It made its own language. I wonder if I can make my own. It seems impossible.”

She was talking to herself again.

He was watching her carefully, ever so cautiously. She started from the flames.

“Terribly sorry for rambling, sir,” she said quietly. “I’ll lay down dinner.”

Molly began to leave the room when his voice called out.

“Miss Hooper?” he said.

Molly turned at the door.

“Tomorrow, please endeavour to find boots without holes in them. And perhaps a dress that looks a little less shabby. I believe the East wing has some cupboards which will supply you with what you need.”

She blinked.

“Yes, sir,” she said obediently.

“And I will serve myself tonight.”

“Very good, sir,” she said. She paused at the doorway.

“Goodnight, Molly,” he said.

She shut the door soundly behind her. The house moaned.

“No, I know,” she said. “I wonder why, too.”

That night, she slept as fitfully as she always had – but she did not cry.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please review! I understand if there's anything bothering you about the premise of this story - I mean, it's a kidnap fic, and consent is dicey so I would really like if it you kept telling me if anything stands out as particularly problematic.


	3. Simon Says

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys I am???? Blown away. By the response. I mean. This fic is insanely popular for something that started two weeks back. I don't know what to say. 
> 
> THANK YOU VERY MUCH. 
> 
> And also! I know I'm a day late, but I was travelling all day yesterday.

She woke up early that morning.

The sun wasn’t in the sky either, and even the house was sleeping. She woke up because she was freezing cold, and she wanted something hot to drink. She wished there was milk in the house. She was wondering whether she could ask it what it did for the Master _before._

The house yawned.

“Good morning to you too,” said Molly, throwing on one of the clean dresses she’d salvaged from the rooms in the East Wing.

It murmured a reply.

“You know food doesn’t appear out of thin air,” Molly told the house. “What on earth did you people do for milk?”

She put on her shoes as quickly as possible. Her boots she had deposited in the hall way to the kitchen and the servant’s quarters, and she refused to get rid of them. They were hers.

The house groaned softly.

“No, I cannot positively do without it,” she promised. “I shall have to speak to the Master, I suppose. God knows how that will be.”

She could not mistake the remonstrative tone in the house.

“Oh, do be quiet,” she said. “He’s terrifying, but how long can _he_ go without milk? I don’t suppose he does his shopping himself. And if he is going to behave badly then there won’t be any milk for any of us. Which is already the case.”

She looked outside the window. The trees were sighing softly.

Molly let out another breath she had been holding for a while.

“Alright, let’s get to it.”

* * *

 

Molly’s days in the house were defined by this point. She woke up early. She made herself breakfast – normally, whatever was left was made into pottage. She hated pottage, and she wished she could rid herself of it entirely – but things couldn’t be helped.

The barely edible dish from the eleventh century itself was the least of her problems, however. January was still ice and water, wind and storm – still freezing her to the bone. It helped that the house had calmed down a little, because it allowed her to get some things done.

After their conversation, Moriarty hadn’t said anything to her. She had guessed it was one of his new plans, probably. He made her constantly uncomfortable – regularly ill at ease, and frankly, terrified for her life most of the time. She swallowed the fear on most days, because although the Master of the house was an awful, sinister, omniscient, terrible man – she was also under his power.

Moriarty liked amusement, that was clear. One week without sharing a word with him had given her a good notion of that. It wasn’t that he would return to laugh at her, but she had the very distinct feeling that he was watching her. She did not care to entertain him at all – and never bothered shifting her schedule an inch, but she wished she could make it obvious to him that she knew he was watching.

He hated boredom, she guessed. That explained many things, including his mercurial nature – at times delighted, at others quiet, and then at times loud. But never out of place.

Moriarty was never out of control, that became fairly evident to her within her singular conversation with him. He may behave that way at times – he may laugh maniacally, or tease her incessantly, or perform the role of a man who was clearly guided entirely by his mood and emotions – but he was not. He was always performing. He was always performing the role that would best unsettle his victim.

And Molly cared not a button for it.

She could sense when he slipped from one role into the next. She could feel it during the conversation – he had begun contemplative, quiet, sober – moving easily into a very deliberate kindness. Giving her clothes.

_Incredibly thoughtful, my lord,_ she thought savagely.

She didn’t know what his title was, but she was sure he was some kind of important fellow. If the idiotic title “The Dark One” didn’t give that away, she didn’t know what did.

_The Dark One._ She’d heard the legends.

They were stories, obviously. Good ones – ones she had loved, and ones she had thought lacked depth.

It had been a while since she read fairytales. She didn’t remember exactly the legend, but she was certain that it had something to do with a sinister force that seemed to extract favours from desperate people – and for a price. Normally, not a very good price.

Besides. This was the nineteenth century – she had long held the belief that spectres, ghosts and other such stories were simply that: stories.

She picked up a pail of water that she’d had the good sense to fill up last night, and began making herself a cup of tea. There had been little by way of tea leaves before, but the house had begun coughing up its secrets eventually, and Molly had demanded to know. She had added, with some asperity, that what kind of awful torture was it – to have tea leaves in the house and refuse to share them with an Englishwoman. Granted, Molly wasn’t the most patriotic of the lot, but she was British, and a lack of tea would not do.

Her mornings were becoming predictable. She cleaned, she washed, she made herself tea. She never bothered entering Moriarty’s room, for he resided in the West Wing – and he never came for Breakfast or Lunch. Curious smells invaded the house during this time, or odd visitors at times. Molly would spy them from the staircases that lead to the kitchen.

Women in odd hairstyles, wearing odder clothes – things which might even have been in fashion a hundred or so years ago. Men who had yellow eyes, or handsome faces – broken hearts wandered into the house at times, and broken stories more frequently. Molly liked inventing the bits of them that were missing – unwell mothers, lost loves, hidden treasures. She created their worlds and stories on a whim.

Childishly, her imagination went wild. It made skeleton hands, ghostly mothers, twilight meetings, trees that spoke, images that were preserved in enchanted ponds. It might have something to do with her current predicament.

Her afternoons were spent cleaning up the various rooms of the East Wing. She found herself with gowns of heavy brocade which would not do – and decided to make cushion covers from them. She found large whalebone corsets which were uncomfortable, to say the least – and she undid it to provide herself with material to mend some of her own clothes.

She used the piles of lace she found to make lace doilies. She didn’t know where it would be expected to use lace doilies in an enchanted manor, but she couldn’t care less. She liked white lace.

She had been making dinner, but the Master hadn’t turned up in nearly a week and a half. She didn’t know why. She supposed it to be a larger manipulation, but she wondered.

How many more had been trapped in the house, lost in the hallways, destroyed by the darkness? And out of them, what made her the same – and more importantly, what made her so different? Did he frequently abandon the men and women he kidnapped to play games with them.

She didn’t know. She suspected that a part of the silence was for her to wonder at Moriarty – to write him in a way that made her fear him more.

And more. And more. And more.

Molly sighed.

She picked up the pail of water, beginning to scrub the kitchen floor.

The sense that someone was watching her came then. It felt a little like a card game – Faro, or Whist, perhaps. As if someone was waiting for her to reveal her cards without showing her what they were holding. The sense that she was looking at herself from outside her body, her back, her profile, her legs – perfectly etched out for the watcher to notice.

The clearest indicator was that the house would be gone when the Master watched. She didn’t know where it went, but she couldn’t sense it any longer.

She had had _enough._

She turned around abruptly, forgetting her pail of water. Her brows crossed, lines on her forehead, her hands in fist, her feet itching to stamp on the slightly wet floor.

“Perhaps you’d like a cup of tea as well?” she asked politely, to the watcher.

She was being laughed at, and she knew it. He was laughing, and although everything was silent – it was perfectly plain to her that he was laughing.

“While I have you,” said Molly conversationally, returning to the pail of water.  “You wouldn’t be able to get us some real supplies, would you? Only the house requires everything from milk to flour. If you wish to, you can even get a cow. I’m not entirely certain how one milks a cow, but I will endeavour to try.”

He was still watching her.

“I can provide a list,” she added without turning away from the floor she was scrubbing. “And please stop watching me this way. Am I not entitled to a sense of privacy?”

The watcher had paused to consider. She knew he had, because when she turned – there he was, in the flesh.

“Very good of you to see me,” she said. Her hands were wet with the soapy water. Her void no longer shook, but she felt the tremor down her spine.

He smiled at her again.

Molly looked at him steadily.

“Above all things, I’d just really like if it there were enough fresh vegetables for decent food,” she finished.

“And why should I supply the house, Miss Hooper?” he asked lovingly.

Molly swallowed the bile that instinctively rose to her throat.

She shut her eyes. “I don’t have a _reason._ You can obviously do what you wish, but even you have to be tired of soup. With mouldy vegetables, besides.”

“It doesn’t sound like _enough_ of a reason,” he said plaintively.

“Fine,” muttered Molly. “Don’t blame me when we run out of salt.”

“You intrigue me, Molly Hooper,” he said, finally. His finger touched a tendril of her hair, and it took all the effort in Molly’s body to not flinch away.

“I’m sure you say that to everyone you kidnap,” said Molly sarcastically.

The corners of his lips turned upwards, and it occurred to Molly that the man was rather sure of himself.

“You’d be surprised.”

His voice had this tendency to be uncommonly sinister while being perfectly pleasant.

“Be that as it may, I still would like some eggs,” she said, her voice steel.

“It’s not your fear that is a little intriguing. Fear is commonplace. It’s everything you do with it.”

“I have a strong sensation we are having two entirely different conversations,” said Molly, throwing a dish cloth over her shoulder, looking up at the man.

“And what would you do if I demanded you to prove you should have your supplies?”

“I’m doing nothing of any sort for you,” said Molly flatly. “I may be terrified, Mr. Moriarty and scared out of my wits – but even I should know that you care for nothing and no one more than your pantaloons. Very nice pantaloons, too – would fit nicely in an assembly at Almack’s, but I’m the one who does the laundry.”

He was looking at her again, with that odd sort of twinkle in his eye. Molly hated him.

“And don’t you _dare_ touch my hair again,” she added, turning around. She threw the dish cloth on the wooden table, cleaning it rapidly and a little feverishly.

“Are you not scared of me, Little Molly?” he asked her softly.

“I’m monstrously terrified,” said Molly plainly, looking at him again.

“And do you dismiss your fears when you speak to me?” he asked, with the air of someone who had a scientific curiosity.

“Hardly,” scoffed Molly. “It’s just an emotion, sir. I don’t see why I shouldn’t give it any more importance than I give the rest of them. Will you give me supplies, or will those pantaloons find themselves in a fireplace?”

“You’d be whipped if it should happen.” She knew he didn’t mean it, because he was playing the game again. His eyebrow was raised, and he was waiting to see how she would react.

Then again, who knew what he meant.

“I wonder what it would be like to have a difficult life,” said Molly darkly, at the prospect. “I daresay I won’t bother burning them in that case, and we’d live without the eggs. Look, sir, I’m not fighting for power or any other such nonsense here – if that is what you are expecting. I’m trying to do whatever jobs you give me, or I shall be bored to tears.”

“And if I give you nothing?”

“Are you not listening?” she demanded. “I’d be bored to tears.”

“So you will.”

And he stalked away, turning into something not-light. Something not quite shadow, and something that smelled a little too strongly like peppermint.

“What an _odious_ man,” Molly declared under her breath.

The house had returned, so he must not be watching anymore.

“Oh, hello. Could you scrub the floor?” she asked.

The house moved softly, and at once, the pail of water zoomed alongside the cloth.

“Thank you!” called Molly, turning to the dusting of the counter tops and table tops.

_A most horrible man,_ her mind whispered quietly.

* * *

 

The next day, the kitchen was stocked to the top with all sorts of supplies.

* * *

 

She had looked at the larder twice, and then thrice, and then a fourth time. The house was in a flurry – it had woken her up early, practically snapped at her ankles. She had woken in a start, and hadn’t had a moment to put on her shoes.

In a hurry, the house had opened all the cupboards.

Molly did wonder at this behaviour, but only for a minute. In another minute, she was entranced by the more important task of looking at a larder which was piled with wheat, flour, vegetables of varying types and kinds, large piles of fruits, sugar ( _finally!),_ salt, other assorted ingredients – even _chocolate._

“Heaven help me,” Molly murmured.

The house was murmuring as well. It sounded surprised, and if Molly wasn’t wrong, it was looking at her with some sort of accusation.

“Don’t ask me, all I said was we needed _eggs,”_ said Molly defensively.

That’s when they heard the sounds of chickens from outside the house.

“Oh, _no,”_ Molly groaned softly.

She rushed outside the house, ignoring the rickety hinges of the doors and the fact that she was barefoot. Her feet touched the cold stone slabs, the freezing, _burning_ snow – the dimlight of dawn that hadn’t quite touched the house. The pinks of the sky were tantalising her, brushed across the sky like the hand of God had woken up himself to do the needful.

Molly opened the door of the chicken coop, and sure enough – four chickens roosted quietly, clucking softly. The rooster was preparing himself to greet dawn, and Molly was instantly annoyed with him.

She had only a few chickens at her cottage, and she knew how to care for them. Thankfully.

She stepped out of the chicken coop, the wind blowing her hair across her face. She looked upward instinctively – the West Wing that was staring down at her, and the tall, French windows and she saw what she needed to do.

He was outlined at the window, the candlelight behind him casting his figure in dark relief. She could see the waistcoat faintly, and she could sense his smile.

She frowned.

Her uncovered feet were freezing, and all she would like to do in a situation such as this would be to run for miles. For hours, perhaps years.

She brushed her hair behind her ear, and continued to look at him. And then, her fist clenched – for a small, tiny little second. She squared her shoulders, put her long hair into a loose bun. Strands touched her cheek, tickling her a little.

He was grinning.

* * *

 

Molly stepped inside the house, and the house looked at her inquiringly.

“Paper and pens,” she said quickly. “I need to inventory everything, and then we’ll think of what to do.”

A paper and pencil was conjuring in front of her, and Molly lit her candle. She wrapped her shawl tightly around herself, and began by scribbling at the top of the paper.

“And perhaps if you’d be good enough to begin with the cleaning, we can get a move on.”

The house snorted derisively.

“Oh, don’t blame me,” said Molly.

And yet, she was sure her words fell on deaf ears.

* * *

 

Molly worked savagely that day.

She ordered everything about, she worked endlessly. Many of the fruits were to meet their deaths by becoming jam, various vegetables were set aside for planting. She would have everything upturned, everything re-fixed, everything cleaned. It was a good thing that the Master had sent her a note conveying that he would have left the house for two weeks, for Molly had that grim look of determination that had quite terrified some of the boys in the schoolrooms at times.

It was well known that when one of the Hoopers had that queer look on their face, none could stop them. Even Elizabeth, Molly’s marginally more popular sister got it from time to time – and then, she’d find herself on the winning end of a spelling competition.

So Molly was on a rampage. The house, slightly frightened, had done what she had commanded.

Within a week, Molly had angrily reupholstered some of the chairs, she cleaned the house, patterned more doilies than one would have imagined possible, darned table cloths, cleaned writing tables, sharpened knives, prepared rooms, made inventories for linen, and steadily had the house looking more than just habitable. It had begun to look a little more like it was a reasonable home. Not a grand one, it had probably never been a grand one – but perhaps a comfortable one.

Molly cared not a button.

She had cooked a storm, too, for the day he was returning. The oranges had been made into marmalade, with a few kept aside for everyday eating. Similarly, she had baked the apples into small pies, she’d made jars of scones, fresh cakes, and other baked goods.

Moriarty didn’t know it, but Molly had always loved baking and when she was particularly troubled, she would bake.

She looked at the tall drapes and tapestries crossly. Not a bit of _light_ in the house, not even a little.

And the Master was returning home on that day, too. She didn’t know if he would approve of her tearing down the drapes, but she had to make the house look habitable – and currently, she could hardly sew in the library or the study.

She wrinkled her nose. The house made an inquiring sound.

“Do you have a ladder, by any chance?” she asked.

* * *

 

She gripped the sides of the ladder hard, until they were white. She’d ordered the house to work on the remaining rooms in the East Wing, and she’d taken it upon herself to do the study, the library, the parlours and dining room herself.

She took a deep breath, telling herself to not look down.

She pulled at the drapes.

“Quick tugs, Molly,” she told herself.

_One, two, three –_

She tugged.

_One,_ she began again. _Two, three –_

Tug.

“Once more,” she said softly.

Molly turned, felt the room spin – her stomach falling into the void that seemed to consist solely of butterflies. Her fingers tingled.

She blew a strand of her hair away from her face.

_One,_

Her hand felt a little slippery.

_Two,_

She wished she wasn’t wearing boots. Her toes gripped the ladder better.

_Three –_

Molly tugged one last time, and her fingers slipped.

Her unbalanced feet rocked gently on her soles – _the calm before the storm_ , and she shut her eyes, as she began to topple off -

Her stomach plunged tightly, and then, and then, and then –

She stopped falling.

She peeked through her eyes quickly.

Moriarty stood in front of her, his hand extended – performing whatever he needed to so that she would float a few inches above the ground. Molly swallowed.

“Good afternoon, Molly,” said a pleasant as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

“Afternoon, sir,” she said.

“Please, don’t let me interrupt you,” He continued. He placed her on the freshly cleaned carpet, leaning against the side table that Molly had tidied.

Molly neatened the non-existent folds on the apron. “Um – thank you,” she said.

He looked at her laughingly.

“What _were_ you doing?” he asked.

“I – well, spring will be here soon,” she said. “And there isn’t a bit of light – so – well –”

He was frowning.

“If you don’t care for the tapestries to be down –” Molly stammered. “We could – re – replace –”

“That would be an awful lot of hard work wasted,” said Moriarty gently. Molly’s blood froze.

“Oh – alright,” she said. “I’d prepared some tea.”

She walked hurriedly to the blue China set that she had freshly washed.

Moriarty settled down on one of the chairs. He was momentarily comfortable, before turning in confusion.

“I reupholstered the chair,” said Molly, pouring out some tea from the pot.

“You _have_ been busy,” he said.

“I might have been – bored to tears – otherwise,” she said.

Moriarty smiled. Molly returned the smile for the briefest moment before she checked herself.

She turned to give him the cup, but given that her hands were shaking irreparably, and her fall into a certain loss of limb had occurred only a few moments ago, she was still feeling heady.

She dropped the cup, and flinched almost automatically. She picked it up and looked at him –

“I’m so sorry,” she said apologetically. “I – well, it’s just that – it’s chipped, now.”

Molly had never seen such a strange expression on his face before, and she wasn’t quite sure _why._ She didn’t like the look of it, and her fear of being punished coursed, once again, through her veins.

“It’s just a cup,” he said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Reviews are fantastic! 
> 
> Next update might be a little delayed, because I've been insanely preoccupied with my admission for my post graduate degree. ANYWAY, IT MIGHT BE TWO WEEKS BEFORE NEXT UPDATE


	4. I Spy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi!!! I'm so sorry I am a week late, as I updated on my Tumblr - my keyboard broke down, so writing became impossible. I really missed this story, and I pretty much churned out this chapter as soon as my laptop was repaired. I wanted to update yesterday, but I'm shifting my update day to Sunday since I have a recurring class on Saturday. 
> 
> ON THAT NOTE: POST GRAD ADMISSIONS ARE DONE, I AM NOW A STUDENT FOR ANOTHER TWO YEARS :))))
> 
> Second note: this chapter will be rough. Fair warning.

She was in a moment – a moment of her eyes tightly shut, of having that unbearable weight pressed on her chest. She couldn’t move – not from her bed, unable to shift, unable to speak. She was barely breathing.

And her heart was beating softly.

She counted it – One, two. One, two. One, two.

Her voice was stuck somewhere between herself and the space above her. She felt colourless – like a transparent ghost, roaming in halls that remained as brown as she forced them to make them red. She couldn’t think of anything except the lack of colour – the white, bright sky, shining with the listlessness of winter, unable to supply her with blues, pinks, golds, oranges.

Awake, unable to open her eyes.

Her heart was beating softly.

_One._

_Two._

_One._

_Two._

Come on, Molly.

She was distantly aware that the house was around her. She didn’t have anything to say. She wanted to disappear into the blanket, into the winds. Into nothing.

_One._

_Two._

Her fingers – so small, so rough, they touched the bedding, pressing into the folds of the cloth.

Her feet touched the blankets. Her toes curled. They curled – around the strands of hay, around the bits of her that had somehow scattered about the bed.

Her breath came out in a mist above her – she could feel the clouds of winter reality exhale. Exhale. Exhale.

_Come on, Molly._

And she opened her eyes.

“Good morning,” she said to the house.

It was watching her carefully, and she knew it. Perhaps someone else was watching her as well, but she could not be certain.

 _Time to go for war,_ she said to herself.

And she put her boots on.

* * *

 

“Good morning,” she said as she rushed down to the kitchen, to find the master seated at the smaller table.

He didn’t greet her, apart from a nod. He was poring over a newspaper.

Molly looked up at the light of the window, wishing – wishing – wishing –

“Tea,” said Moriarty’s dark voice succinctly.

It tended to curl around her – around her neck, her cheeks.

She nodded.

The kettle was already on, which was nice of the house to do – since she only had to manage breakfast. Ever since her slightly mad dash to make the house an acceptable looking one, Moriarty came down for breakfast more frequently, and for tea in the evenings. They never said anything, but Molly’s stomach was clenched throughout the interaction.

At times, she still got the sensation that someone was watching her – but a lot more distantly, a little less brazenly.

It helped that he hadn’t said anything to her. It maintained a fragile sort of peace between them. A little less cruel – a little more… _curious._

She poured out the tea quickly at the table, put down the cake she had made for breakfast, and began on the eggs.

The newspaper flipped.

The sound of frying sausages bubbled through the air. The smell was everywhere.

Molly took the sausages and eggs down, put them on a plate, and waited.

Moriarty ate a single bite, shut his paper, and despite the sunlight now found in the kitchen, the darkness enveloped his form until – until – until –

He was gone.

Molly turned to the stove.

Exhale.

* * *

 

The days were difficult sometimes.

Molly had realised that the seconds were slipping into minutes. The minutes pressed away between the pages of books she cleared, stuffed into jars, swept by the brooms in the afternoon – gone, before she could catch them. The hours had become waves, which washed by her – softly disappearing into the darkness of the house.

The tall architecture of the room loomed over her constantly.

And Molly batted away at the ceilings – wrapping spider webs in her broom, cleaning tapestries – forcing light.

She entered the study, clearing the tables, the little things of Moriarty that she was perversely interested by almost as much as she hated them.

 _Taxonomy: An Introduction,_ she read from the corner of her eye.

She couldn’t help reading the titles. Moriarty’s books were odd and varied, differently collected and from a variety of the corners of the world. She had tried to look a little lesser, simply because she knew that it was a tempting part of him – something that she would like to avoid, if possible. This was also why she always cleaned the study first – and why she felt most uneasy in that corner of the house.

He read books of literature, of medicine, of stories, of philosophy, of geology, of chemistry, of science. She didn’t know quite what he was attempting by the array of literature that was spread under her nose.

Books were expensive. Molly had her mother’s commission coming in, which was very little – but just enough to support her. Three hundred pounds a year was enough for her alone, and she would borrow books from the only bookshop in town. She’d rent them out, which was a little cheaper. And at times, during Christmas, she’d buy a few.

And here was Moriarty, surrounded by thousands and thousands of books – books that he touched, the spines that had felt the tips of his fingers as he pulled them out of the shelf. Books that had been caressed by his skin, which had inhaled him.

She longed to read them, and yet –

She could only look from time to time. She could stare, watch, desire. She could not touch.

What would he do to her if he found her rifling through his books?

Her hand lowered, as she placed the books back in the shelf, her fingers touching the spine of a beautifully maintained copy of _Paradise Lost._

He was watching her.

She was aware of this before she turned around, but she started nevertheless – when she spotted him near the doorway.

He didn’t say anything, not for a moment. His eyes skimmed over her, and Molly shivered.

_One, two. One, two._

And he smiled.

Molly clutched the last book in her hand. Her knuckles were turning white.

“Do return that to its place, Molly,” he said genially.

He walked away. Normally, she could never hear him leave – not once. This time, she was sharply aware of the retreat of his steps. They made a sharp sound over the floor.

The book fell from Molly’s hands.

She wished she could sink into one of the chairs _she_ had reupholstered.

“What are you looking at?” she asked the house crossly.

The house mumbled snidely.

“I don’t like it any more than you do,” said Molly, grabbing her dusty cloth and marching out of the study.

And again, there were murmurs of criticism.

“Do be quiet,” she said, returning to her kitchen.

* * *

 

The snow was finally beginning to soften a little more in February. It was early, and it would take till March for spring to listlessly arrive, but come it would.

Molly was curled up on a rock, overlooking the acres and acres of fields that stretched around the house. The white sky, with a small, ineffective sun was hung around her. She enjoyed looking at the forests, at the climbing, tall sky. The wind fluttered around her, the clothes she had put up on the clothesline murmuring softly with every touch.

She tilted her head sideways.

At times, it occurred to her that her loneliness was curiously quiet these days. Not that it had disappeared, but that it had stopped bothering her.

Which was odd, because even while she lived alone by her own choice – it bothered her.

She had taken off her gloves. The winter stinged her sharply. Her head automatically searched the skies. The sky, filled with a certain kind of whispering, taunted her softly. She couldn’t hide here, not from the sky – not from the thunder, not from the rain, the clouds, not from the wind. She was terribly, terribly tired.

And up she got, finally. Her ungloved hand pressing into the snow as she raised herself up. She dusted her apron, and crept into the house. She took off her apron – it was afternoon, and she took a little time off during this time. She might even sleep for a little bit.

The house had disappeared into one of its corners. It seemed to do that at times, and she had wondered why. She had wondered many things, obviously, but it seemed clear to her that the house had a history that she hadn’t any access to.

Molly was always looking upwards at the halls, almost constantly. She didn’t know why the ceilings were what she stared at the most of all, but that was where the blackness seemed to disappear into.

_Tap._

Molly stopped on her tracks.

There was a rustle of cloth up ahead. 

It was coming from one of the bedrooms. Molly was unsure of who would be in the East Wing bedrooms at this time of the hour, but there was only one suspect.

She peeped into the room, careful about what boundary she was crossing.

The master stood in front of a mirror, his tie around his neck, and his face obscure.

Molly hesitated.

He turned to look at her. She had never felt more inescapably trapped.

“Would you mind?” he asked politely.

Molly’s feet stuttered on their way to him. She took a breath, clutched the back of a chair, and stepped forward.

She maintained an arm’s length distance from him. She didn’t want to come any closer, and she could knot a tie perfectly well from this space.

He didn’t insist on any closeness. His smile was polite. His voice was genial.

She felt the itching sensation of having been violated in some way. She hated it.

“Terribly sorry for bothering you,” he said.

Molly nodded perfunctorily before escaping from the room. Her breath was speeding, her heart was irritating her, and she wished she could throw herself from the topmost floor.

She was outside the door, and she could hear him look after her retreat. She could hear it.

“I have never enjoyed myself as much as this,” he mused, to no one in particular.

Molly choked back a sob.

* * *

 

Molly would pull at the world during bedtimes. She would pull the earth around her, the wind to cover her. The sky to fall on her.

And she would sleep.

She dreamed of Elizabeth these days. Of her father. Of her mother. Of the people she had loved once. Of everyone who was gone.

But at least she slept alright these days. Not fitfully.

She missed herself.

She missed a herself that she didn’t know quite existed. One that she yearned for, that was perhaps a part of her mother, her sister, and her father. One that had existed a while back, and yet, seemed to exist in the future. One that was here, and not – one that was the wind, and not.

She turned over.

He was watching her again. Not closely, distantly. She knew it was him.

“Please, I am trying to sleep,” she said aloud.

The darkness swirled in front of her, the candle flickered –

There he was.

“Hello,” she said, arranging the blankets around herself gently.

“Evening,” he said pleasantly.

“Why do you watch me?” she asked.

He tilted his head to the side. “Why do you ask?”

“I have a right to know,” said Molly quietly. “I dislike being violated. The least you could do is tell me _why.”_

He looked at her again.

“’Violated’,” he repeated softly. “You did not have any power when you entered the house, Molly Hooper. What makes you think you have any now?”

“I am not fighting for power,” she said plainly. “I would simply like to know how much of my dignity is to be sacrificed for the sake of your games with power.”

He didn’t say anything.

She looked outside the window. “I do not feel the need to fight to explain my every breath to you, sir,” she said. “I am human. Does that not qualify me for my dignity without needing to amuse you?”

He looked at her interestedly.

“Curious.”

“I don’t have to be curious for you to afford me a sense of privacy,” she said, looking back at the window.

“Oh, I understand the merits of your argument, Little Molly. It has simply never been used against my games.”

Molly chewed her lip. “Perhaps because your previous opponents entered willingly. I didn’t ask for this.”

His finger tips touched as he regarded her. “And yet, here you are, arguing with me.”

Molly blinked. “I am not fighting in your arena, sir,” she promised quietly.

“And if I keep watching you?”

“You will eventually be bored,” she said.

His face was always half shadow, half undecipherable. And that was, perhaps when she noticed something odd in his face. An expression she couldn’t quiet place.

“Somehow, I sincerely doubt it,” he said.

Molly’s nostrils flared. “Nevertheless. I would like it to not continue.”

He looked at her with that expression again, that odd one, the strange one. “Very well,” he said.

“Very well?” asked Molly.

“Very well,” he said. “I will not watch from the shadows.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Is this because I managed to pass your test, or won a game of some sort?” she demanded.

He smiled. “Hardly.”

“Then why?”

“Because you _asked,”_ he said, finally. The darkness had touched his fingertips, covering his feet, his eyes. “And as you explained so logically – the game isn’t fun if only one of us is deciding the rules.”

He was gone before she could argue – and she had such a _lot_ to argue about. She wanted to tell him, under no uncertain terms, that she was _not_ playing.

* * *

 

She looked outside the window as she washed the dishes. It was terribly cold, and her hands were half frozen – the water running down her skin, ice and silences.

The house she had sent off to clear some of the plumbing up in the attic. She hadn’t gathered the courage to venture upstairs as of now, but she had spotted what looked like a piano.

The firs rustled as she watched them. She rolled her eyes at them, which surprised her for a minute. Molly looked back at the dishes, when she heard a loud, _loud_ high-pitched yelp coming from the edge of the wood. Almost immediately, she shut the water off.

Molly wiped her hands on her apron, grabbed her boots – and was out of the house without a coat within minutes.

She knew it was pointless to rush towards the yelps of what must be a wild, untrained animal. It was always better to mind one’s own business in situations such as this, but god, the monotony was driving her _mad._ Something had to be _done._

There was another loud yelp, and Molly tripped over herself. She fell face first into the snow.

As soon as she got up, she regretted her lack of gloves. She felt annoyed at her dress as well, but one couldn’t help that.

The edges of the trees taunted her, their leaves high in the sky and beckoning her further. She frowned at them crossly, and rushed through the snow again.

The wood was silent. A little less silent than normal, but silent. The winter weather had settled on the branches of the trees, and the animals had disappeared.

“Hello?” she called.

She made her way through the wood. Between the trees that were reaching the sky, the magic that had decided that it was simply part of the setting. A fairytale, this place – almost definitely where Little Red Riding Hood got lost. Molly was not wearing red, but she felt it in her bones that she’d met a wolf already.

The tinny sound of a whine reached her. She whipped around, changing her direction in the confusing forest.

By the time she located the source of the sound, her breath had steadied. She was no longer panting, she was no longer out of breath.

It was a small dog. A small, tiny little terrier. His leg was almost just blood and bone, almost just nothing else. She bent down gently. She had to be terribly careful – animals in pain tended to bite.

She gently reached for the dog, who growled softly. She stopped almost immediately. “Alright, I apologise,” she said quietly. “But you need to let me have a look at your paw.”

He looked away from her. He was male, he could be around four years old, she judged. He seemed to have gotten into an altercation with something that had torn his leg into bits, and he wasn’t keen on being looked at. She needed him deposited in the kitchen, so that she could fix his leg.

She took a deep breath. No one was watching her, not now.

“What are you doing so far from the house, Molly?” asked a voice.

Almost instantly, the shadows of the trees converged on the white snow.

Molly didn’t turn around. Her knees were freezing on the snowy ground, anyway.

“Could you help?” she asked, without turning.

He was behind her. She couldn’t see his expression, but she could feel that he wasn’t too close behind her.

“Alright.”

She turned abruptly.

“You will?” she demanded.

His eyes were dark, as they always were. His face looked a little terrifying, as it always did.

He nodded, with a grin.

Molly would like to ask why, to get an answer out of him – but she decided against it. She smiled unconsciously. “I don’t suppose we have bandages at home?” she asked ruefully, turning back at the dog. She lifted herself out of the snow and turned around.

He tilted his head to the side. “There’ll be bandages when you return,” he said.

She nodded, her voice stuck in her throat. She turned to look at the small dog again.

She shook her head. She stepped forward towards him, wanting to direct the dog to the kitchen as quickly as possible. The roots of the trees reached for her then – unconsciously, as she always did, she tripped over them –

Several things happened simultaneously. The dog yipped softly, Molly fell, once again, face forward, a hand gripped her before she touched the ground, and her heart plummeted to the bottom of her stomach.

She looked upward, and Moriarty’s face was impassively cold. His expression was hard and inaccessible.

She applied a little pressure on his hand as she got up. They weren’t too close – he was a distant, reasonable arm’s length away. Yet, she felt… surrounded. She took a deep breath, her eyes firmly placed on the snow.

“Thank you,” she said.

He nodded sharply. His fingers snapped. The dog that had yipped disappeared almost instantly, and Molly could feel her cheeks going a bright red.

He was gone before she could ask him to do the same for her. Molly looked at the house distantly – her eyes were shut.

He was invading her, unknowingly.

She opened her eyes again, and stomped off to the house.

* * *

 

The dog was waiting for her when she got back. She cleaned his wounds, cooing softly. She didn’t know what she would call him, or if she could keep him – but for now, he was wounded. He’d lost a bit of blood, so movement was out of the question.

And Molly liked him. He was rather friendly, but in a standoffish manner. He turned his nose up to the meat Molly had provided him initially, which made her laugh.

She had cleaned him up and put him to bed in the kitchen eventually – he was mongrel, with a terrierlike ancestry.

She needed sleep.

It was around midnight, and dinner had taken her a while thanks to her new companion.

He whined a little as she left, and Molly nearly took him with her to her room. She didn’t want to hurt him more than necessary, so she didn’t.

Besides, he was still a little untrustworthy. He didn’t snap or growl, but he eyes her rather suspiciously. He licked her hand cautiously when she was done.

The light of the study was still flickering when she decided to make her way to her room.

Against her better judgement, she hesitated when she saw the crack in the door.

She was soft when she approached it. Light was glancing through, in bits, like a fluttering paper.

She looked inside, and _he_ was sitting at his writing table. He wasn’t facing her, but sideways. She could see the outline of his profile, flushed in the light of the fire.

His hands were touching, but in an odd way. The tips of his fingers from his left fingers were resting lightly against the edges of the wrist of his right hand.

Her fingers tingled.

She walked backwards, hurrying back to her room.

The house seemed to become larger in that minute, almost expansive. She knew her boots were clearly audible over the floor, but she didn’t care. She nearly rushed to her bed, throwing herself on the covers and sheets, and turned over immediately.

She touched the edges of her right wrist as well.

He had been checking his pulse.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love reviews!!


	5. Playing Doctor

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helllllllllllooo! Couple of hours late, but I'm heeereee. Hope you like this chapter woooo. Oh ALSO: devilgrrl came up with one of the major plot points in this chapter and i love her.

Toby was scratching on her door.

“Not now!” she said, hiding under the blankets again.

She wished she could end the rush in her heart when she woke up every morning. At least the lethargy was being countered by the very insistent methods undertaken by Toby. Spending the morning counting her heartbeat until she could positively leave the bed was - was - exhausting. 

He whined plaintively.

“Get your food yourself!” mumbled Molly in her pillow.

More whining. The little monster had learned how to do this.

By this time, the house had arrived as well. The house, which was being annoying and trying to drag the blankets away from her. Molly sat up in bed.

“All right,” she said, trying to warm herself from her arms.

She got out of bed, and opened the door. Toby barked when he was allowed inside. Not joyfully – in a mildly annoyed way. Molly rolled her eyes at him. “Everyone does not wake up at the crack of dawn,” she informed him severely.

He yawned.

“That is precisely what happens when one wakes up far too early,” she continued, as she spread fresh sheets on her bed.

He stretched out and settled down near her.

“You,” said Molly in no uncertain terms, “are quite simply a disagreeable menace, one that I regret keeping wholeheartedly. You foisted yourself on me, Toby, you really did.”

Toby looked at her earnestly.

Molly smiled.

She had to feed Toby, particularly this early in the morning when he would bother her until she did. Molly wasn’t much of a late riser, but Toby woke particularly early.

Moriarty had never  _ said  _ no to the dog. Molly had simply assumed she could keep him, and had christened him Toby. Molly sat down on the bed, ruffling Toby’s fur. 

He had been avoiding her again. Not Toby – Toby seemed to always enjoy company. Moriarty.

He had disappeared again for days, leaving her alone for tea and breakfast and lunch and whatever else. Molly didn’t mind, but she had been rather bored – a circumstance which she had found quite amusing. Toby was reasonable company, and so was the house – but she almost missed having proper conversations with her captor. Almost.

Until she remembered how scared she was.

Molly pressed her hand to her forehead. Cold sweat, again. She might have been dreaming poorly, for all she knew – but she could do nothing about that. Fear had become the background on which she operated. Being afraid came to her as naturally as breathing – she almost didn’t realise it at times.

She touched her wrist briefly, shook her head, and decided to get dressed.

* * *

 

She slipped downstairs, directing the cleaning and dusting. Her orders at times fell on deaf ears, since the house was prone to arguing with her frequently.

“Absolutely not,” Molly declared as she rushed down the stairs. “You will certainly not bring the piano out.”

She had been feeling a little better lately, and she knew it. She wasn’t being watched, which helped elevate her mood a little. 

The house may have shaken its fist at her, Molly judged, by the tone it undertook.

“No,” said Molly. “Or I will paint the kitchen pink.”

The horrific wail that emerged from the windows nearby gave Molly the indication she needed that she had made her point.

“That’s right,” she said.

The house grumbled before rushing away to clean, and Molly felt pleased that she had emphatically made her point.

This was, of course, until she stumbled upon the dead body lying in the middle of the entrance hall.

She hadn’t stumbled on it by accident, she had simply taken the main entrance downstairs. This was normally not a problem, since hardly anyone visited (and those who did weren’t liable to notice her). Yet today, there was something of a body in the middle of the room and it appeared quite dead.

The house was watching her carefully.

“I haven’t the slightest,” she clarified.

Toby took a few cautious steps towards it. His nose quivered as he sniffed the flesh, and Molly tilted her head to one side, wondering what he was going to do next. Molly approached the body carefully, shooing Toby away from what he seemed to think was dinner of some sort. She didn’t prod the body, she wasn’t an idiot, but she examined it distantly.

“Stabbing,” she murmured. 

The house sounded a bit alarmed when the doors of the cabinets began rattling.

Something touched her shoulder.

“Not now,” said Molly, waving it away.

She watched the body for a moment longer. She stepped back, looked around, and was confronted by a puzzled Toby and a house that seemed fairly cross.

“Could you deposit the body on the table in the kitchen?” she asked. “And attempt to not contaminate it in any way.”

The house looked simply horrified. Toby cocked his head.

“Oh, and I require all the knives,” continued Molly absentmindedly. “And a little privacy. The Master isn’t around, so I don’t see why we shall require a quick breakfast. You can bring the piano down, if you wish.”

The house finally looked a little pacified. And suspicious.

“Hurry!” said Molly impatiently. “Please,” she added in retrospect.

* * *

 

The fire in the kitchen crackled. 

Molly had been a little more than scandalous, with her stockings and her slippers off, her feet resting on a stool, and her back rested on the chair. Dinner was laid out on the dinner table, and she’d ushered a visitor (looking for a bargain for to save his land, apparently) away from the house. 

There was a sound from the dining room, but Molly decided not to look up. Her fingers brushed against her wrist lightly, and she simply continued scribbling her notes.

The kitchen door opened. 

“Molly,” said Moriarty silkily. 

“Sir,” she greeted, without bothering to take her shoes off the table. 

“I wonder if you found something in the hall today?” he said lightly. “I sincerely hope you didn’t bury the body.” 

Molly finally looked up at him, at his eyes. Her eyes were glittering. 

“No,” she said. “The body has been placed in your study in case you wished to examine it further.” 

“Further?” he asked, his eyebrows raised. 

“Yes. I did a simple analysis and left it on your writing table,” said Molly. She flipped a page of her notebook.

“A simple analysis?” he asked. 

Molly was enjoying herself immensely. 

“A simple analysis. I prepared a chemical report, simply to ensure that he had, indeed, been poisoned. Not enough for death, but enough to make him pliant for the knife that followed. Multiple stab wounds which seem to have been irrelevant, and one precise one, framed with intent. I have also prepared a report for his clothes, and disposed him of them. They’re on your -” 

“Writing table, I know,” said Moriarty. 

He had that expression on his face again, the one she didn’t recognise. The one that made her feel oddly light. 

“And you are currently…?” 

“Attempting to quantify whatever repairs would be needed for the piano,” said Molly simply. “And an inventory of our larder.” 

“When  _ did  _ the piano come downstairs?” asked Moriarty conversationally. 

“I wish I could explain it,” Molly sighed. “The house has been  _ insistent.  _ I gave in, particularly since I dissected a body in the kitchen.” 

Moriarty searched her quickly. 

“I’ll serve myself, Molly,” he said, as he left the kitchen. 

Molly’s stomach unclenched, almost certainly. But she was  _ smiling. _

* * *

 

She had to bring in coffee later, and she noticed that the body was gone. She was unsure of what had happened, but she found him rifling through her report while sitting by the fire. 

“There was a visitor today, sir,” said Molly. 

Moriarty didn’t respond. 

“Molly, would you sit?” he asked. 

Molly paused as she put the tray down. 

“Alright,” she said. 

She settled down opposite him. The fire burned. 

“This is rather thorough,” he said, finally, looking at her report. 

“Did you not want it to be?” she asked. 

He looked up at her. The yellow of the fire reflected in his eye sharply. 

“I did not expect any of this,” he said. 

Molly’s breath was caught somewhere. She suppressed another smile. 

“Did you have medical training?” he asked, finally. 

Molly nodded. 

“My father was a Doctor,” she said quietly. “I helped. He had no one else to help him, and my sister Elizabeth was… busy.” 

He seemed to want her to continue, but he didn’t say anything. 

Molly briefly shifted in the chair. “We didn’t have a lot of dead patients,” she continued. “Not in this small village. At best, broken bones. I learned how to fix some, as well. I used to read his medical journals. But I liked death more.” 

She looked up at him. His eyes were dark, impossibly dark. 

“I know it sounds odd,” she said. “But it’s true. I preferred them - they told good stories.” 

Moriarty’s head tilted to the side as he regarded her. Toby scratched inconsequentially at the door. 

“And the piano?” he said. “I’m assuming that there is a story.” 

“What?” asked Molly blankly. 

“The piano. How do you know what is there to repair in it, Molly?” he asked. 

“I play,” she clarified. “I cannot repair the piano, however.” 

He was looking at her, but for once Molly did not feel invaded.

“It was a good dinner, Molly,” he said softly, looking at the fire. 

Molly understood that she had been dismissed. 

She left the room, to the joy of a disgruntled Toby. Her hand stroked his head almost automatically - and she decided to leave for upstairs. 

Her room somehow seemed a little warmer tonight. Perhaps the fire had a lasting effect on her, perhaps spring was making her arrival known - Molly didn’t know. 

When she opened her door, there was a small set of books stacked on her bed. 

_ Paradise Lost  _ seemed to invite her in.

* * *

 

Molly didn’t read, not that night. She didn’t know whether she’d be able to wake if she read all night - but the next morning, Moriarty came down for breakfast, and once he was gone, she pillaged through the small stack of books that he had given her. 

_ Paradise Lost.  _ That was always a good place to begin. Milton whispered words in her ears.

* * *

 

She swallowed many of those books in the next few days. Moriarty looked amused to find her reading, but she ignored him. The house seemed exasperated, but she ignored it too. 

It was only when she was done with the books that something struck her. She would have to ask him for more. She would have to ask him for more.

* * *

 

She didn’t sleep that night. This wasn’t because her stomach had clenched, as it always did, and the bile had risen to her throat. 

And the reasonlessness for her immediate despair was terrifying her - she couldn’t breathe again. She couldn’t breathe.

* * *

 

Molly opened her eyes and regarded the ceiling. 

Toby was scratching the door again, but it wasn’t having quite the effect she needed to lift her out of bed. She turned over in bed, groaning. 

Had it been the books? It might have been. 

Her heart was sinking softly to the bottom of her stomach. The whiteness of the window seemed to taunt her again. No sunlight. No pink. Nothing except the reminder that winter would never end, even if February did. 

She felt so tired. 

She felt her eyes becoming hot. 

When will the feeling  _ end?  _ She pressed her hands to her mattress, and tears leaked out of her. 

The house was in her room. 

“Could you tell the Master I’m not well?” she asked softly. 

The house didn’t seem to want to retreat, and Molly’s control over her tears was precarious at best. 

“Please?” she said. 

She had to leave the room. The white was invading her again, it was everywhere, it was fogging her. The house may have gone, but Molly was not able to shift. 

She couldn’t help the sinking feeling in her stomach, and she hated it even more than she normally did - since it was completely inexplicable. She had been alright yesterday. She had been alright. She had been alright.

* * *

 

Her hair extended in front of her, feeling lifelessly brown. Her fingers touched them gently - tears streaming down her face. 

He was watching her again, and she knew it. She wanted to tell him to go away, but she didn’t know how much it would help. 

“Molly,” he said. 

Molly turned away to face the wall. “Go away,” she said. 

“No,” he said. 

“I don’t. I don’t have the energy to spar with you,” she said softly. 

“Interestingly, I am not here to spar.”

“What do you want?” Molly asked the wall. 

“To understand,” he said. “You were alright yesterday, were you not? Your situation is not new to you, which means you have lived with it for a while.”

Molly’s fingers touched the wood of the wall. 

He remained silent. 

She turned to face him. 

“I’m scared,” she confessed. 

“I’ve been reliably informed that you were always scared,” he said. 

“That was fear. I am now scared.” 

He was waiting. For an explanation - for a story, she didn’t know. There wasn’t much of a story. 

“I’m scared that I will get used to this,” she said. “That I will remain here. That I will forget. That I will become involved in you, your life, your  _ books -  _ your piano. What place is there for me, but in the walls of the house, another soul to add to the collection?” 

“You’re getting used to me,” he confirmed. 

She finally lifted herself from the bed, rose upwards, and pressed her knees to her chest. 

She nodded briefly. 

“It was the books,” he continued. 

Her fingers pressed to her feet, twining between her toes. The sheets creased underneathe. 

“And before?” 

Molly looked at her fingers. 

“I was lonely before,” she said into her knees. “I was lonely, and loneliness is easier to ignore than fear. And those books were mine. That life was mine. Here, everything is granted by you.” 

He didn’t say anything. 

“And it’s so white here. So terribly white. There’s never any colour. Barely any sunsets. How did you take away sunsets?” 

He looked outside the window. 

Molly breathed in. Breathed out. 

“Alright dearest, you have had your say,” said Moriarty finally. He was looking out of the window. “The sun is setting. Looks a little yellow, if you ask me.” 

Molly looked up towards him. 

There was no one there. 

Sunlight filtered through her slightly dusty window. The clouds hadn’t parted, but there were thin, slanting bits of yellow that were patterned on her floor. 

Molly stared.

She wobbled out of bed, to the window. 

The sky was painted yellow - a brilliant, spring yellow. 

Molly’s fingers touched the latch on the window. She fumbled to open it. As she extended her fingers in the air, nothing burned. She didn’t know if the spells on her were lifted, or if they sensed a change, or if she simply did not have the intention to leave but she did not burn. 

Her fingers dipped into the yellow of the sky, coated golden - liquid light that she could almost taste. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tell me what you think! As you may have guessed, the dead body was devilgrrl's suggestion XD. 
> 
> LOVE REVIEWS.


	6. Monkey in the Middle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eyyyyyyyyyyyyyy hiii everyone. 
> 
> This chapter? A monster chapter. You know what, this bitch of a chapter ended around 4500 words mark, and I have a fuck tonne of 25 chapters planned ahead. You know what that makes me? One of those fic writers who might cross the 100k word mark. Jesus Christ. Oh my god. You either die a hero or live long enough to see yourself become a villain. 
> 
> Why is this a monster chapter? Just.... read and find out. My god, what was I thinking. Why did I decide to do this. Oh my god.

Molly chewed a pencil’s end as she contemplated her notebook. Her notebook was brown and leather, her pencil red. Neither of these things were relevant, but Molly liked the look of them.

A red sheet drifted itself towards her, brushing against her shoulder. Molly looked up distractedly.

“Oh, - um, perhaps the parlour? On one of the long tables,” she said. The sheet drifted off immediately.

Around Molly was a flurry of activity. Plates were being washed in the sink, in a comically overwhelming amount of soap. It spilled from the sink - and right where the water fell, the brooms were desperately marching out into the dining hall. Molly was wondering whether she ought to clean more than that, but Moriarty had been deliberately vague on how long the people would be staying.

So she had prepared some of the rooms. Meanwhile, the oven was cooking, the wine bottles lying lined up for Molly to air and decide on. She had virtually no training in fine dining, and she was unsure of what to do. She was going to ask Moriarty himself.

The dusting cloths were cleaning rather rapidly, and Molly looked up. “How often does he entertain?”

The curtains vigorously threw themselves into the tub full of water. As they came out, they shrugged. The house was feeling a little excited, and Molly could feel it.

“At times, then,” she murmured, crossing curtains out from her notebook. “Who cleaned previously? I don’t wish to be offensive, but you don’t have much of a taste for food.”

The house crossly disappeared to the other room. Molly smiled to herself. She liked the idea of Moriarty overseeing the meal himself, if he ever did. Perhaps he hired someone, but for now, the thought of him in an apron, watching over a cooking duck was simply wonderful.

Toby was napping in the corner, as he seemed to be very keen on doing. The dog had healed well enough, and had retained most of his appetite. He was still a little skinny, but Molly thought that made him a better shape for a hug. Toby, of course, vehemently disagreed with this assessment.

She snapped her notebook shut. This was, by no means, a house manageable by one person. The idea of a woman serving alone was a little inappropriate, but she supposed there wasn’t much of an option. Moriarty had never imposed a uniform on her, and she was not willing to start wearing one now - she would wear one of her nicer dresses - a dark blue one, simply cut, and flattering for her complexion - but beyond that, she refused to comply.

Not that he had asked her to.

She frequently found herself steeling her nerves for an invisible battle. She was not sure what Moriarty had done that evening, when yellow had poured through - but Molly no longer burned when she extended her fingers beyond the window. She had not experimented with leaving entirely yet, since she was not sure what the boundaries and limitations were.

So she had mental battles with imaginary orders that Moriarty left for her.

She knew she should attempt leaving, but she was a little scared of what could happen when she did. She didn’t know whether he had given her the ability to do that, and if he had, _why_ had he? What were the clauses of the contract, the rules of the game?

She didn’t _want_ to play.

So she stayed. She waited. She wondered. Perhaps one day, she would absentmindedly leave to pick up some apples, and go further and further away from the manor and closer and closer to her cottage. And then she’d spend her time there. By herself.

She frowned at the dog at her heels. Perhaps she’d take Toby.

Then she watched the brooms cleaning the floor. She _wished_ she could take the house.

They were friends now. Especially since Molly had an ambiguous kind of freedom.

She mentally fought battles over her decisions, but she did them anyway. She ransacked his library. She cooked what she wished. Now that the snow had melted, she had planted vegetables. She did things by herself. She had overseen the repair of the piano. Some terrified stranger who told her he hated owing the Dark One favours had come into the house to do it.

She’d wondered if she should play the piano, but she didn’t seem to have time in the day.

Part of her considered that she might just be too scared. But she swallowed that part of her down.

She wandered behind the house. “What do you think of the centrepieces?” she asked.

The house shrugged.

“I suppose,” she said. She tapped the end of the pencil against her palm. “Do you think I’m too scared to leave?”

The house contemplated. Then, one of the statues nodded.

“Thank you,” muttered Molly under her breath. “Should I leave?”

One of the curtains mimicked the tilt of a head. Molly held the house’s gaze. _I don’t know,_ it said.

Molly didn’t either.

* * *

 

Music.

She’d heard the piano playing for a while now, and she hadn’t an idea who was playing. Somewhere in the world, somewhere in the middle of the house, somewhere far away, the music crept over the wood of the house, notes falling like snowflakes over the dark corners.

She opened her door, stepping out. Her heels clipped against the wood, sharply contrasting against the music. She stood there for a second, peering down the corridor.

“Mozart,” she murmured.

She tapped the edge of the door frame before she walked towards the music. Molly’s feet were cautious over the floor, one step at a time, careful over what she might come across and what she would like to avoid.

When she reached downstairs, the music wafted from the parlour.

She slowly went downstairs, cracked open the door. The piano didn’t have anyone sitting at the bench, it was playing music by itself.

“Good evening, Molly,” said Moriarty from whichever corner of the room he had decided to be in.

Molly opened the door wider.

“Good evening,” she said.

He turned to look at her from the fireplace, Molly felt herself going red when he passed a cursory glance over her. “You look pleasant,” he said.

Molly didn’t have anything to say, so she smoothed the folds of her dress. “Thank you.”

“I don’t actually know how to play,” continued Moriarty.

“Oh,” said Molly, one foot behind the other. “I wouldn’t have known. It’s a good charm.”

“Thank you,” he said. He adjusted his cuffs carefully, and Molly swallowed. “When will everyone be here?” she asked.

“Around half an hour more, Molly,” he said, looking at his collar.

Molly nodded. She closed the door behind herself as she left.

The house was back, and watching her inquiringly. “We have half an hour,” she clarified.

* * *

 

“No, I don’t see anything so far,” she said, as she peered out of the window. She whisked a bowl filled with something quickly. Toby was sitting at her feet, his eyes looking up at her pleadingly.

The house groaned as the oven opened.

“They don’t come by carriage?” Molly asked.

More sounds.

Molly turned around sharply to the house.

“What do you mean they come by magic?” she demanded.

The house shrugged.

“For someone who is supposedly a creation of magic, you know very little of it,” said Molly waspishly.

The air seemed a little tighter in that minute then. Molly looked upwards, towards the hallway.

“Whip that, I’ll return in a moment,” she said. A few pots and pans fell in protest, but Molly ignored them.

She rushed upstairs, her apron tied around her waist. She peered through a crack in the door to look at the entrance hall.

There was a silhouette of a woman, dressed in a pale cream dress, the ruffles at the back sharply highlighting her figure. Molly was taken aback by the sharpness of her features - her pink lips, nose, her perfectly done hair. Molly stepped back, almost, in surprise.

“We have a watcher,” she murmured softly.

Molly looked around the room to see if anyone was with her, but noticed no one.

“Oh, my companions will be here soon,” the woman addressed to no one in the room.

In that moment, Toby shot past Molly - the blue of her skirt whipped through the door as Toby barked at the woman. The woman turned to look at Toby, and before Molly shouted “Toby, _no!”_ he was already sitting down quietly by the woman.

She smiled at him.

Molly, who was now visible and at the centre of the scene shuddered.

“Hello,” said the woman.

Molly - unsure, and a little nervous, curtsied.

“My, what a lovely specimen, Jimmy,” she said, index finger touching her lip and the middle finger on her cheek - so delicate a movement, that Molly’s eyes couldn’t tear away.

“Not yours, Irene,” said Moriarty serenely, from the top of the stairs.

There was a brief moment when the most important part of that exchange registered in Molly’s head: _Jimmy?_

“And what are you thinking, darling?” asked the woman then. Irene, that is.

“You’re very beautiful,” Molly blurted thoughtlessly.

She smiled at Molly archly, and Molly was strongly reminded of a cat.

“Thank you,” she said graciously. “So are you.”

Molly went red. “Um - I should return to the kitchen -”

“Why don’t you stay?” asked the woman.

Molly looked up instinctively to Moriarty, but he didn’t give her any indication whatsoever. Molly looked back at the woman - Irene. “Alright,” she said.

“Tea?” asked Moriarty.

“Absolutely,” said Irene.

Molly tilted her head. “The parlour is that way,” she said. She stepped forward to lead the small party, and she wondered after the woman in question.

She’d never seen her before, not really. But she somehow felt like she had been here before. The house seemed to be fluttering at Molly’s heels. Molly frowned at the house - “Did you whip the rest of the eggs?” she asked. “Because we need someone to serve.”

Moriarty seemed to be ignoring this - perhaps it was because he was used to it, perhaps because he didn’t want her to think of him too much, perhaps he was allowing her to lower her guard - she didn’t know.

“You can speak to them?” the woman asked.

“Them?” asked Molly.

“The souls of the house,” Irene clarified, luxurious stretching out on the sofa.

Molly settled down on the sofa as Irene did. Moriarty was standing by the window, watching outside.

Molly’s fingers tapped nervously. “I suppose I can. I don’t think it’s a ‘they’ anymore, however,” she said.

“Isn’t it?”

The woman was looking at her curiously.

“No,” said Molly, her eyes gazing into the fire. “It’s a someone. She’s rather nice.”

“‘She?’” asked Irene, her eyebrows raised.

Molly jerked upwards. “I think so. I wouldn’t want to assume.”

“Where did you find her Jimmy?” asked Irene, her voice rich.

Molly blinked.

‘Jimmy’ turned around. “Wouldn’t you wish to know, sweetheart,” he said.

“Not a very enjoyable companion, is he?” asked Irene with a sidealong glance to Molly.

Molly was looking at him with a curiosity that she couldn’t quite place. Because Moriarty didn’t have his normal, calculating stare on him. He was looking at her with that slightly mad look on his face that preceded something properly insane.

“Hardly a companion, sweetheart,” said Moriarty.

“A villain, then?” asked Irene.

“Every fairytale needs a good, old fashioned one,” he said with a bright, bright grin.

Molly didn’t shudder. Her stomach didn’t unclench. She simply stared.

“I’ll be back in a jiffy, dearest,” said Moriarty.

 _Dearest_.

Irene gave her a sly look as Moriarty disappeared into the darkness. She pressed a single finger on the side table. Molly felt a small, vibrating charge across the air.

“Ah. He isn’t watching. Uncharacteristic of him, I will say.”

“I asked him not to watch,” said Molly slowly.

“Did you?” asked Irene.

Molly nodded.

“And he listened?”

Molly’s head tilted to the side. “Was he not supposed to?”

“I don’t know, dear. I would say that a dark wizard would not attempt to listen very often.”

Molly frowned. “I would say that good manners should be a prerequisite for all activity, dark or otherwise.”

Irene was smiling, but in that strange expression that she saw at times on Moriarty.

She was scanning Molly for something, and Molly felt immediate irritation. “Please don’t. I do not wish to have magic performed on me for no reason whatsoever.”

She said it so firmly, that she had a feeling Irene felt a little taken aback.

“Apologies. I was looking to see if he had bound you to the house.”

Molly’s heart thumped faster. She looked at the fire. “And has he?” she asked softly.

“No,” said Irene. “I think he did, perhaps - I can see traces of the magic, but it is no longer keeping you here.”

Molly’s fingers tapped against her skirt. “Oh,” she said.

“You are not surprised,” said Irene.

Molly didn’t say anything.

“Which means you knew.”

Silence.

“I had an idea,” said Molly honestly.

“So will you leave now?” asked Irene.

“I might.”

“What keeps you?” asked Irene finally.

She looked instinctively at the door. “The house. My dog. I think. I do not know.”

In that moment, the windows lit up. Irene did not bother looking up, and that told Molly all she needed to know.

The rest of the guests had arrived.

* * *

 

“The tray of biscuits,” Molly directed. The tray disappeared immediately up the stairs and into some hidden corner of the house.

When everyone else had arrived, Molly had slipped inconspicuously into the kitchen again. She’d noticed the visitors though - just as odd as the rest of Moriarty’s visitors. Perhaps a little more powerful.

The tall man in glasses made Molly more uncomfortable than Moriarty did. The women were more in number than she had expected to be - the blonde woman with smiling eyes, the dark haired one with the dead ones, and Irene Adler. She’d caught the rest of her name while serving.

They were talking about… something.

She was certain the conversation was a veiled one, and she was not sure what would happen during dinner time. Already nothing made sense to her.

“Stay in the room, let me know if they need anything,” said Molly. “I’ll watch from outside.”

She had been waiting outside the room, listening for any indication of anything that she would be needed. Her other objective, perhaps, was curiousity.

The door, however, was wide open and Molly’s ears invariably unable to hear everything from a safe distance across the hall. She hesitated, before she remembered that she hadn’t sent in any of the scones.

Molly’s dash to the kitchen was only punctuated by Toby assuming that she was going to finally leave the house for a quick walk outside. He yipped at her heels, and Molly smiled before she pushed him out of her way.

White china, she decided. The one with the periwinkle blue floral patterns.

The scones were placed on the plate rapidly, and she disappeared again in the direction of the parlour. Toby was sternly told off, and the kitchen door firmly closed in his face - with an added verbal reminder that should Molly find the chocolate mousse destroyed, he would be held responsible.

Inside the room, trays floated nondescriptly, serving the members seated.

Molly attempted to be as invisible and nondescript as the house, which was watching her and sniggering softly. “Shh!” Molly hissed.

“Very pleasant of you to have called us after such a while, James,” said the tall blonde man. “I wonder why you called me, but I suppose I don’t care.”

“Don’t listen to him, dear,” said Irene, eyes glittering. “I, for one, love the scones. I would thank you for those alone.”

Molly went pink.

“The scones are not the object of the meeting, Adler,” said the dark haired man. His voice was guttural. “Jim, I hope you have good reason to bring us here - particularly after everything that happened with Sherlock Holmes a year back.”

“He is yet to know the consequence of that,” said the dark haired woman. Her eyes were gray, gray as the skies - breathless and breathing at the same time.

“My deals with the Holmes family are none of your business,” sang Moriarty.

Molly looked at him with interest. He was different around them.

“It cost the rest of us a pretty penny,” said the blonde haired woman with a grin.

“You _loved_ it, Mary, don’t lie,” said Moriarty, bending down - nose nearly an inch away from the blonde - Mary’s nose. “You have a fancy for the little _pet,_ don’t you?”

Mary didn’t blush or shy away. “And what if I do?”

“Careful who you disclose it to, dear,” said Irene, sipping her tea delicately.

The black haired woman smiled blankly.

“No point hiding anything all of you already know,” said Mary. “I’m not the one offering scones, after all.”

Molly was again, curiously aware of herself.

She had the strangest sensation that while she was a perfectly ignored part of the setting, she was also simultaneously the focus of everybody’s attention.

“Why are we here, Moriarty?” asked the tall, shark eyed man.

“You would love this, Charles, my love,” cooed Moriarty. “But after dinner. During coffee.”

He sang a lot around this lot. He wasn’t trapping them, so he played with them - he had never done the same with Molly. He had, perhaps, never needed to put her on her guard - he had never needed to disturb her more than needed.

It was more disturbing to her that she understood this about him almost instinctively.

* * *

 

“ _Hairpins!”_ called Molly frantically.

A dresser appeared from nowhere, looking as frazzled as Molly felt, pins popping from the drawers. “Mary’s room! The red one, sorry!” Molly said, shoving some into a pincushion clumsily.

“Dinner!”

The house had all her knives working over time as Molly watched over the roasting duck. “God, I hope we never have to do something like this again,” Molly muttered, poking the duck with a fork. “I need dressing!” she called.

A jug appeared.

“Not _syrup,_ dressing!” Molly said.

The kitchen was simply falling apart, she could feel it. She’d be happier when everything was over.

She took off her boots, eager to be of use without dragging the clunking thing. She was more nimble on her bare feet, and she had to dash. Scandalous, she knew.

“Take the soup!” she directed.

She rushed upstairs, into the dining room - barefoot and hair in a little disarray.

“There’s a set of forks missing!” she called. Forks danced in the air. Molly smiled when she saw them lay on the table, and the house seemed to be giving her a tired smile as well.

Someone coughed from behind her.

Molly turned quickly. She was beginning to get irritated by her hair, which was refusing to remain pinned up. She blew a strand of it out of her eyes and looked to find the source of the cough.

Moriarty was watching her.

“Oh,” said Molly. “Thank god.”

He looked momentarily taken aback. And then he smiled, a half smile.

“Really?” he asked.

“I’d rather it was you finding me without shoes and with my hair in a mess,” said Molly matter of factly, turning back to the dinner table. “That centrepiece!” she called. “It’s missing.”

A floral centrepiece floated through the air.

“Did I compliment your taste in floral centrepieces?” asked Molly, as she looked at the table, mildly pleased.

“I had a florist who owed me a favour,” said Moriarty.

“Murdered his wife for him, did you?”

“Murdered her rather terrible husband, truth be told.”

Molly gave him a look - a small one, a slight, tiny smile. “Careful, sir. Someone might suspect you were going soft.”

He had an odd sort of look on his face, the one that said he was enjoying himself - but Molly had done nothing extraordinary: she had not dissected any bodies, she’d hardly said a word about murder. It ought not to take so little.

Perhaps he was getting used to her as well.

“I should leave. I’ll serve coffee around seven thirty, with some chocolates.”

She paused on her way back to the kitchen. “How does everyone get dressed?” she asked, turning. “I met not a single Lady’s Maid or Valet. And they don’t seem to be as lower class as I do.”

Moriarty snapped his fingers. His person was covered, for a second, in blackness - before he emerged, dressed in his dinner clothes.

“You’re all a lot of insufferable people,” said Molly good humoredly. She disappeared to the kitchen almost immediately.

* * *

 

The house was quiet.

Molly had noted that most of the guests had gone for coffee immediately. This had surprised her - women were the ones who ought to leave first. Yet the men and women left the table simultaneously.

The cold of February had finally begun to fade a little - little by little, little by little. Yet this night was as cold as any other ones from January, given that it had rained. It had rained, on the roof of the house, on the pavement, on Molly’s garden, a little bit in Molly’s room (the house had berated her for leaving her window open). It had rained a little heavily, a little softly, and a little differently.

Molly’s fingers had extended from the window of the kitchen while she washed the dishes. Drops had fallen on her hand, tattooing her hand - water pressing into her skin, cool as ice.

She had looked up finally when dinner was done - wiped her hand on her apron and went upstairs to clear everything. She was still shoeless, and she didn’t care. She didn’t want to emerge to speak to any of them.

And the dining room was empty.

The house was in the kitchen, still. Molly was simply surveying the damage before she gave instructions - besides, dishes had to be cleaned.

The candles sputtered as a gale blew through some of the more drafty corners.

The door opened, and Molly jumped.

Unluckily, it wasn’t Moriarty. It was the man with shark eyes.

“Ah,” he said softly. He adjusted his glasses. “Our new celebrity.”

“Terribly sorry to -”

“I forgot my cigars,” he said. His voice was a little like cloth - not a nice kind of cloth, however. It felt more like Indian cotton. Rough around the edges, but giving the impression of softness. He approached her - or rather the table, and Molly wondered.

She simply wondered.

She glanced at the table, and picked up the case of cigars.

She handed it to him. He didn’t look particularly grateful, or particularly anything, at all. His fingers touched her wrist - and then his hand was on it - wrapped, tightly, crushingly. She could feel his skin on hers. There seemed to be a moment - a moment, unhurried, and distant from the remaining ones, in which the shock of the touch registered.

Not as naturally as anyone had ever touched her, but with intention - with meaning. With a kind of impossible disgust trapped behind it.

Molly tried to tug her hand away nonchalantly, but he held it tightly. His eyes looked into her, and for a second, Molly’s heart was in her throat.

His other hand touched the side of her face - gently against her hair, and she flinched. She flinched violently, and he smiled.

“I do wonder,” he said softly.

“Charles,” said a voice sharply.

Molly had never been happier to see Moriarty.

The man dropped her hand, turning around to see Moriarty.

“I don’t like sharing toys,” said Moriarty clearly. Molly didn’t have time to protest against this designation and she very much wondered if it was simply a lesser evil that she would have to put up with.

“A toy?” asked the man. “Unimaginative of you.”

Moriarty had never looked more angry. If Molly wasn’t a little more than ruffled, she’d have told this Charles fellow to disappear this instant. Moriarty’s eyes were not dark in that moment, they were white anger. Cold anger.

“I shall bring the coffee,” Molly murmured.

Her bare feet on the floor felt eerily not hers. As if she was simply directing a body that didn’t belong to her.

* * *

 

There was silence.

Molly had watched everyone leave from the corners of the house, unwilling to emerge - not wishing to be spoken to, or attacked, or watched in any way, shape or form.

She had been hidden behind curtains, behind doors and windows - willing herself to watch, willing herself to extend and yet remain. She had watched.

And everything was quiet. The kitchen was clean, Toby was asleep by the remnants of a kitchen fire, and the house had disappeared to the West Wing - as it tended to do, at night. The candles had been murmuring for a while, conversations that the dark would rather not hear, she supposed. The clouds thundered overhead - the black and blue of the nightsky only contrasted with the yellow of the study.

Molly was returning to her room. At once. She wasn’t going to peer inside the study.

“Molly?” called Moriarty from inside.

She sighed.

The door opened effortlessly. He wasn’t seated by the fire, he was standing by the bookshelves. Molly didn’t know what he had been contemplating, but she could see the anger again.

“Sir?” she asked.

Her fear - the one that seemed to exist almost constantly in her heart bubbled again. She did not fancy an angry Moriarty.

“Next time someone touches you, and you do not like it, you speak,” he said.

He said it quietly. He said it so the words rang.

Molly chewed her lip.

“It wouldn’t help, sir,” she finally informed him.

“Explain,” said Moriarty.

Her neck arched, her eyes glimmered. “Well - what if it was your touch?” she asked.

He was impossible to read.

He approached her then, and Molly’s heart thumped against the ribcage.

He was standing a reasonable distance away, he was not smiling - as he tended to do, when he wanted to unsettle her. He extended his arm, and Molly watched his fingers. “May I?” he asked.

Molly hesitated momentarily, before she placed her hand in his.

“This may feel a little strange,” he said. He sounded rather like a doctor, but Molly forgot what he sounded like in around half a second.

A surge of electricity ran through her body - through her fingers, through her arm - straight to her head. She felt the jolt inside her, and on her whole body - spreading evenly. She felt the wax like film that settled on her skin - between the ridges of her body, into her being.

And he dropped her hand immediately.

Molly flexed her fingers. “What did you do?” she asked.

“Spell. Repels unwanted touch,” he said shortly, turning away.

“Oh. But if it is _your_ magic -”

“It’s yours,” he cut her off. “I harnessed your power with my skill. The magic is yours. No one but you can remove it, and it responds to you.”

To make a point, his fingers reached for her hand momentarily. Molly felt them repelled almost instantly - his hand floated a little above her fingers, and then dropped again.

He looked - he looked - he looked strange.

He was a head taller than her, his dark, black hair in sharp relief in the firelight. The stubble on his face highlighted the contours of his face. His black eyes were almost completely dark. He looked rather - rather indescribable in that moment: the yellow glow on his white skin, the incomprehensibility of his decision to do this.

Molly looked at him.

“Thank you,” she said softly.

“Don’t be stupid,” he dismissed.

And Molly had nothing more to say to that.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reviews!!


	7. Chinese Whispers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey all!!! Thank you for your responses, as usual. I loved every single one of them. 
> 
> AND HEYYYY I'M KEEPING SUCH GOOD SCHEDULE. Y'ALL SHOULD APPRECIATE ME FOR MY REGULARITY.

Birds.

Across the sky.

They flew in formation - a v shape, that crossed the clouds, the sunlight, and the trees. They crossed everything, and then, the strangest thing happened. One of them opened their mouths, and twittered.

Molly had never seen anything half as beautiful.

She heard the tinkling sounds of winter still, and yet, she grinned. She grinned, because she’d felt yellow move into red last night - she’d spotted pink in the skies in the morning, and the sky seemed a little less white. A little more blue.

And she slipped out of bed. She straightened her sheets, she put on her boots - snapped shut the book she had been reading last night ( _The Taming of the Shrew),_ and kept it away - in the steadily tottering pile that was beside her bed.

She examined her wall.

She’d been scribbling notes to herself - about the house, about the skies, about repairs needed, about things she may or may not need to remember. And she put them up on her wall.

So she surveyed the wall. “We have to plant more potatoes!” she called loudly, her hands on her hips.

The loud banging sound of the house was not comforting. She rolled her eyes. “You may not want to, but you _have_ to!” Molly yelled.

More sounds of pots falling.

“You’re responsible for that!” Molly added.

Toby scratched at the door, and Molly opened the door. “Pretty day, isn’t it?” she said cheerfully.

The dog looked at her reproachfully, as if she could have the gall to pretend it was a good day when all she intended to do was stay in the kitchen.

“No, we will plant potatoes today.”

He huffed at her, yawning. He then decided to wag his tail perfunctorily and disappear from the room. Molly smiled.

She looked at her fingers, her hands, her feet.

Her body.

_Hers._

For as long as she could remember, her body had belonged to someone else. To some unknown someone - a secret other, who was more defined by another language. Her sister, perhaps - or her father. Her body had not been hers, not even while she lived alone. Her books reminded her of that - that there was something terribly wrong about her, since she ought to have been something else. Someone else.

And then, Moriarty had done this.

She had never felt a sense of self possession as strong as she did now - as she understood now. This was hers. No one could touch it without her permission.

And she touched her fingers to her hair.

She smiled.

She decided to wear her green dress. She’d found it recently, and it had been rather a bit of a mess. She’d fixed it only recently, and she was eager to try it on.

* * *

 

The wind was blowing this morning.

Molly had found that wonderful. She dug the vegetable patch, the hard ground cracking under her shovel - her hat fluttering in the wind, and her hair with it.

He had entered the vegetable patch behind her, and Molly hadn’t looked up.

This worried her at times - she was scared of how much she liked the house, how much she liked Toby, and how much she liked the wind. She was a far cry from being happy - but she had forgotten how to simply like things.

So she stayed. She could leave if she wished, she knew that now. But she stayed.

“Morning!” she said, when she looked at him.

“You seem cheerful.” Moriarty seemed to have not slept a wink. His normally flawless hair was ruffled, and he looked rather exhausted.

Molly pointed at the sky. “It’s becoming _blue,”_ she said in a confiding voice.

And he smiled, in that odd sort of way that told her he was enjoying himself a lot. She shook her head when she returned to the vegetable patch.

Moriarty snapped his fingers, and Molly found herself a little disbalanced in a dug up vegetable patch.

“You’re going to make Toby cross,” she said. “I promised him I’d stay out today.”

“Wretched animal,” said Moriarty. “I will have him skinned.”

“I’m sure you will,” Molly said, shifting to the next vegetable patch. “But don’t you have more worthy opponents?” she continued, hitting the handle of the shovel to the ground to test it’s hardness. “Someone to trick a kingdom out of, a horrible drug to peddle - opium to smuggle into the country.”

“Moran manages most of the smuggling,” said Moriarty with a grin. “Leaves me with space for the more interesting things. Besides - tricking kings from their kingdoms. Rather old fashioned. I’d be laughing stock of the dark community if I should attempt it now.”

Molly’s lips twitched with a smile.

And he snapped his fingers again, and the vegetable patch was dug.

“Toby will not be happy,” Molly warned.

As if sensing her tone, Toby appeared then - dropping the squirrel he had caught, and barked at Moriarty. Moriarty’s smile was a sinister one, and Molly knew Toby ought to fear for his life.

But she only threw Toby a bone.

“Go away, sir,” Molly said.

Moriarty disappeared almost instantly, into waves of shadows.

Molly shook her head and returned to her garden. Toby was looking at wherever Moriarty had disappeared, as if he was contemplating running after the shadows.

“Don’t do it,” Molly warned. “Help me dig, if you have to. Aren’t you supposed to be good at that?”

And Toby’s ears were cocked oddly - which convinced Molly that he didn’t intend to raise a paw to help her.

* * *

 

February dissolved into March. The dark green (almost grey) of the firs was becoming just a little greener. She could see it happen in front of her eyes, she could sense the trees whispering amongst themselves: leafy conversations in enchanted moments. Lately, Molly felt like her every touch was loaded with a little magic - every little bit of her was singing.

The days were smoother on the edges these days - and a part of her was terrified. Terrified that the feeling would return, the horrible, sinking sensation that she could never quite battle away. The horrible, sinking sensation that her ship was falling apart and she was watching it from a distance.

She had often felt that about her body - not simply after the manor, Toby or Moriarty. She had felt that in her cottage - when she had leaked tears from time to time, when she had not been able to eat or sleep. When she had wanted to be alone and yet been unable to feel that she was.

That monster that was part of her - that followed her, that hid under her bed. She wondered if it would return the moment the colours seemed less recognisable.

But she had to move beyond that.

She drank water regularly. She ate. She attempted to garden regularly. She had been too scared to touch the piano, but she wondered if she had it in her to do it someday.

The house was haunted by all the moments Molly had missed. All the lost parts of her.

* * *

 

The kitchen fire was crackling softly, while the soup bubbled. Molly was reading, her feet on a footstool, watching the food cooking.

The sounds of the kitchen had become her natural habitat. The chopping knife on onions, potatoes roasting on the fire - beans in the pan, pots filled with smells - soaking in the melting butter of unsaid words, the milky smell of cream as she whipped it, the sound of the house as it dropped a pot.

She lived here. With Toby at her feet, the house by her side - a book in her hand.

She heard the sounds of footsteps, and wondered what he wanted. She didn’t bother putting her book down when he entered.

“Would you like dinner?” asked Molly, looking up.

“Yes, thank you,” he said. He looked rather wet.

“You’re soaked to the bone,” said Molly, getting up. She snapped her book shut, and began to prepare a plate. “Sit by the fire. The dining room is stone cold at the moment.”

“That would be the last time I decided to invade a country during a rain.”

“I sincerely hope it wasn’t Russia, because even I would have my doubts then.”

Moriarty grinned. “How sharp you are, little Molly,” he said.

Molly rolled her eyes before loading a plate of food.

As Moriarty stepped closer to the seats by the fire, Molly noticed something that made her nearly drop the plate. “You’re _wounded!”_ she said.

Moriarty was momentarily pulled out of whatever horrible thing he was concocting to look up at a Molly with an apron tied around her green dress, her hands clutching a plate of food, and a look of shock on her face.

“Small scratch, dearest, worry not,” he said.

Molly scowled. “I’m not _worried,”_ she said. “I’d rather you didn’t get blood all over my kitchen floor. And it’s a _deep_ cut - I can tell from over here.”

Moriarty looked amused.

“What are you going to do?” he sang.

“Don’t taunt me,” said Molly shortly. “Let me heat some water. Why, you’re bruised on your face as well!”

He leaned back in the chair, not attempting to do a thing.

Molly’s eyes narrowed, but she returned to the pot of water that she had put. She took off the apron, throwing it on the hook. She was careful to put the water in a large, shallow dish. She snapped some of the herbs that were hanging from the window, and took out a large sheet. She tried to make sure it was clean before she snipped it into neat little strips.

“You ought to be more careful,” said Molly. “In this cold weather, too - you might have been dead.”

He opened his eyes, leaned forward, his eyes glittering with that manic energy that caused Molly’s throat to clench up. “That’s what people _do,_ Little Molly.”

She frowned at him.

“Be that as it may, I think your rib might be broken as well. Please remove your clothing.”

She didn’t blush as she said this, she had a lot of experience in her father’s practice. Yet a small, faint tinge of pink did appear on her cheeks. She looked at him resolutely.

“What a terribly forward suggestion,” chimed Moriarty. “Perhaps you should do the needful.”

Molly rolled her eyes again, before she reached him. She bent over him - attempting to ignore the way his hair seemed to smell of the rain. She undid his tie and his collars.

“Your jacket, sir,” she said professionally.

He was enjoying himself far too much. Nevertheless, he took his jacket off. Molly undid his buttons, his waist jacket and she pressed her fingers into the side of his body.

“Bruised,” she murmured. “Not broken. I should bind it, for safety.”

“Thank you doctor,” he said, his eyes twinkling.

“Behave,” Molly said, as she turned around to bring the shallow dish of water.

Moriarty made to show himself as a model of perfect behaviour. Molly bent down at the chair, carefully sitting down on the footstool. She hesitated when she had to clean the wound on his legs, since she wasn’t keen on ridding him of any clothing in that area.

“There is not a lot to save, dearest,” sighed Moriarty. “Use your scissors.”

Molly sighed with relief, before she cut his pants from above the knee.

There was a deep gash in his calf, and one that shocked her, more than anything. “How on earth did this happen?” she asked calmly, as she set about to clean the wound.

“People who wish that I would surrender items in my posession.”

“Ah,” said Molly. Her hands worked quickly, applying a simple medical paste that ought to hurry the healing process. “Of course. That is a very natural consequence of being a dark wizard.”

“Occupational hazard,” nodded Moriarty - yet Molly noticed he had clenched his teeth.

She bound his leg quickly.

“What is it that you are trying not to surrender?” she asked, as she tied his leg up.

“Something stolen.”

“From?”

“Someone terrible.”

“Ah. That makes me feel better.”

He looked at her then, carefully and closely. “I am not a good person, Molly Hooper. Do not expect me to be.”

“Heavens, no,” said Molly, snipping the bandage and tieing a tight knot. “I would never dare to. I have firmly decided that you are a terrible person.”

“I’m curious,” he said interestedly. “What do you look for in a good person?”

“Why do you ask?” said Molly, as she moved to his ribs. She began to apply warm water to them carefully.

“I’m looking for advice,” he grinned.

Molly sighed. “Perhaps you could lean forward?” she asked. “And shed the rest of your upper clothing.”

Moriarty complied.

Molly began to bind his ribs as well, walking around the chair and studiously ignoring his rather well shaped chest.

“There are no good people, Mr. Moriarty,” she said finally, as she began to knot the second binding. “There are people who do a little good, and some who do a little bad. I try to remain with those who are kind to those around them.”

“What does this situation say about you, Molly Hooper?” he asked.

Molly sat down on the footstool again.

“I think everyone knows what it says about me, Mr. Moriarty,” she said quietly, looking up at him. “More importantly, what does it say about you?”

He was looking at her in that way again, then. That expression that Molly could never place - the one that had still remained unrecognisable.

“What are you looking at, Molly?” he asked.

“I - you - sorry -” she began.

“Oh, don’t be sorry -” he said, his eyes glimmering again. “I prefer you watching me with interest.”

Molly went red. “I just wondered - I cannot quite place that expression. I have seen it multiple times, now.”

It was back. His head tilted to the side, his eyes darker for some reason and something odd in his countenance.

He stood up then, and Molly with him - she helped him regain his balance, and he left her hand almost instantly. He leaned forward - she could smell the musty corners of darkness on him.

His breath tickled her cheek a little - _mint,_ she thought - and he whispered:

“It’s _surprise,_ little Molly.”

And before she could respond, he had become the blackness again.

* * *

 

She was lying with her head down on the table.

Periodically, she spun a coin in front of her.

The hard, metallic sound on the wooden table was like an infinitesimal whisper into a void. A metallic plop into a wooden well.

Molly was contemplating.

She groaned again, and she tossed the coin away. She immediately regretted this decision, since she wanted the coin back.

Had she been scared?

Yes, she had always been afraid - always. She had never let her guard down. And some perverse part of her wondered if she was simply doing that in this moment - trusting Moriarty, when he didn’t deserve to be trusted. She had feared him intelligently. She had feared him with reason, with compassion, with a little bit of self righteous indignation.

And then, everything had changed.

She recognised that a terrifying new consequence of his little magic trick was not just that she had a grudging respect for him, but that she was interested in him.

This bizarre, suicidal interest ought to be crushed - but Molly had learned from personal experience that avoiding something seemed to have rather adverse effects on her.

God, why did she have to throw away the coin? She simply _had_ to be a dramatic character from one of the penny dreadfuls.

Toby napped at her feet.

“What do you think, Toby?” she asked.

Toby blinked at her before falling asleep again.

The house signalled her entry into the room by fluttering the curtains.

“No, I’m only agonising,” said Molly.

There was the inquiring sound of the kettle.

Molly chuckled. “Is it odd that I was fascinated?”

In a row, all the metal objects hanging from one of the cupboards fell.

Molly took that for what it was.

* * *

 

The wind blew again, and Molly, unable to think of a reasonable way to fall asleep walked to her window and opened it wide.

There were stars in the sky, twinkling from far away. The moon had decided that it was not joining them tonight - the sheet like moonlight was not spread over the countryside.

The moments began to pass a little too fast for her liking again. She hadn’t seen Moriarty in a while, which made her wonder. The house had gone quiet, which made her wonder.

She sat down at the window, watching the world.

The night felt as crisp as an apple then, as solid and unbelievable as every minute of Molly’s stay at the manor. The wind blew against her cheek, pressing away some of Molly into itself before it disappeared to another part of the world. She had the strangest sensation that the world was watching her - not interestedly, not voyeuristically - but with a distant disinterest. With a mild curiousity. As if the stars were wondering what she would do next.

Molly took a breath.

She would do the laundry next.

* * *

 

The clothes in the washing tub were simply lying there. Molly was not in the mood to begin washing, not in this weather. So she was finding excuses to chop onions and shell peas, while the house grumbled at her.

Molly ignored her. “It’s still cold,” she informed her sternly.

_BANG!_

The sound was amplified by the distance at which it clearly was. Molly heard merely an echo, but it was an echo that was far away. Which meant the sound must have been louder for those who were closer.

She looked at the house. “Was that you?” she asked.

The house denied it.

Molly sighed. She wiped her hands on her apron, and walked out of the kitchen. “I think it came from the West Wing,” she hesitated.

One of the cupboard doors nudged her.

“Is that wise?” asked Molly fretfully. “He did say _no_ to the West Wing.”

And the cupboard door pushed her again.

“Alright, alright,” said Molly.

She walked upstairs. The house seemed to have gone a lot more silent, a lot more… secretive. Molly didn’t doubt that this was a terrible idea, but she nevertheless felt compelled to go through with it. After all, she hadn’t redressed his wounds in a while.

The firs could be heard talking from far, far away. She wondered whether her entering the West Wing was such an important topic for conversation, but it seemed to be. The dust seemed to be frozen in that space - as soon as she stepped into the West Wing’s threshold, Molly sensed a deliberate hush occupy everyone. Each little dusty word, each forgotten scream, each fading spell hushed in silence as she entered.

“Not a very happy place,” she said to herself.

Not a very happy place indeed. Molly noticed the stems of years dried flowers - faded paintings of forbidding characters, and the tall ceilings which seemed to be the refuge of darkness.

She was glad that there was light in the house in that moment. The beams slanted from the windows, illuminating corners of the wood which Molly was certain hadn’t been cleaned in centuries. The light had possibly been trapped in the middle of the wooden floorboards, hushed away until the wood smelled like it.

She reached a door which she was certain was Moriarty’s. She knew it was his, not because of any aura of any kind - it was simply the most ostentatious door in the corridor, and Moriarty just seemed to enjoy the _dramatic._

So she knocked.

When no one responded, Molly bit her lip again. She turned to the house for assistance, but found herself alone.

“Traitor,” she whispered. And then, she took a breath and entered.

The room was dark, darker than she had expected it to be. It was cold, colder than she had expected it to be. It was lonely - and that, she had expected.

The wall to wall shelves were covered in jars, in herbs, in books. Everything had a distinct air of housing ghosts - the shadows that haunted every sunny day of the house. And every little corner was potentially a space where someone had sobbed their hearts out. The tears had become a part of the wood, a part of the house, a part of its history - and Molly’s heart broke looking at it.

She stepped forward quietly - dust rose as she did so. Across the room, in another shelf was another wall of jars. Filled, almost completely with light objects. There were colours there - so many of them.

“And _what_ ,” said a voice that came from the thick of the cauldrons themselves, “are you doing here?”

Molly looked up to find Moriarty floating up in the sky, tendrils of the shadows around his wrist.

“I thought something fell,” said Molly.

“Does that permit you entry _,_ Molly?” sang Moriarty. His voice reached a pitch, a husky sharpness that Molly had never quite heard before.

Molly shook her head.

And he floated downwards, to the floor. His shoes hit the slabs, and he looked at her. He had never looked darker in that minute. Somehow, the shadows under his eyes were more pronounced, the darkness under his neck more obvious - the light falling on his fingers meant nothing to Molly then.

Her heart dropped a foot into her stomach, and yet, somehow sped painfully. The sharp, horrible pain in her chest and stomach clenched her tightly.

And yet, she was quiet. Her face betrayed nothing.

_Come on, Molly._

She gathered herself together. She gathered everything about herself together.

And before she could do anything - she floating.

The darkness couldn’t grip her - _he can’t hurt you, he can’t hurt you, he can’t hurt you_ \- but it could toy with her. And Molly felt her feet leave the ground, as soon as her heart began to thump harder and harder.

“Yes, Molly?” he continued.

She didn’t say anything. Her throat felt unbearably tight.

Her hair was floating mildly. Inconsequentially.

And then Moriarty smiled. “Never come back, Little One.”

Molly dropped on the floor – the fall bruising her ankles, almost certainly. Her skirt pooled around her when she looked up at him, the figure of what was supposed to be darkness – and her skin erupted in gooseflesh.

She nodded.

“Out,” he said with an angelic smile.

Molly didn’t look into his eyes, not even for a minute. She simply got up and walked out.

* * *

 

Her heart was pounding.

She looked up at the sky, unable to think of anything else.

Molly got out of bed – the hay mattress of sheets, how could she ever forget – and nearly fell over as she reached the chamber pot and was profoundly sick.

* * *

 

She hadn’t slept all night.

She felt exhausted, but she had to do things. She had to continue doing things.

Or he would know.

She was such a stupid girl, so unbelievably idiotic. He wouldn’t hurt her, would he?

_Wouldn’t he?_

Molly was unbearably distracted that morning – she’d broken two eggs by the time Moriarty reached downstairs – and then, her body nearly froze up.

“Good morning,” he said unconcernedly.

Molly’s tongue was caught in a lump in her mouth. She couldn’t say anything, so she decided to focus on the stove that she was cooking on.

“Miss Hooper. About last night - please try to adhere to my restrictions," he said formally. 

She had to turn around now. She had to turn around now.

She put food on the plate. Her feet may feel jammed, but she had to move.

She turned around, nodding shortly. "Alright,” she said finally. And she put the plate down in front of him.

His hand brushed hers as she did so then – Molly flinched.

He looked at her then – directly, into her eyes.

Molly’s eyes felt like they wouldn’t be able to match the look – not even a little, not even at all. But she had to.

And so she did. She looked at his dark, black eyes. She looked at them, ignoring how caught she felt – how trapped, how singularly scared.

She didn’t see what she was expecting. She had thought he would be _interested._ Curious. Fascinated.

His expressions was unreadable - but there was a moment, a flash of something that was not calm self possession. A flash of something that looked rather like shock.

“I better get started on breakfast,” Molly whispered.

His eyes released her, but they continued to watch. They continued to watch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reviews!!


	8. Ghost in the Graveyard

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hellloo everyone!! I'm sorry for the delay, but as I explained on my blog - I find myself really swamped with work, and unable to spend enough time with my writing. This has lead to some really careless mistakes, so I'm changing my schedule to a two week one. 
> 
> Also like - if you know, I don't update for some reason - I'll probably say something on my tumblr - wherestoriescomefrom(.)tumblr(.)com(/)tagged(/)song-as-old-as-rhyme
> 
> Just remove the brackets to use the link! 
> 
> Anyway ANOTHER THING - after the last chapter, some of you pointed out that Moriarty was OOC towards the end. I have fixed that and duly edited it <3.

When Molly woke up, she was sick again.

This was a surprise, considering she had hardly eaten anything. The house had finally wheedled her until she had a bit of soup for dinner, and here were the consequences.

Food didn’t bother her as much as the rather terrifying dreams that it was poisoned. The more logical part of her brain knew that Moriarty’s style was not _poison,_ however, she could not help the fear. The other, more revolted part of her did not want to eat anything that he would partake in.

He had stopped coming down for breakfast for some time. She didn’t know whether this was because he was planning something new, or because he was trying to scare her again.

The most terrible thing was that she had gotten used to his company. She had begun to trust that he wouldn’t hurt her – that she didn’t have to fear physical abuse, or even rape.

But that did not mean she was allowed to stop being afraid of him.

He let her operate by herself, he let her do the cooking, the cleaning, her reading. He seemed to be in the house, but it was clear that he was not willing to meet her.

Molly couldn’t sleep again. She couldn’t eat again – and she certainly couldn’t focus anymore. Everything seemed to be pretend – everything seemed to be simply false.

The last two weeks of March had dissolved in a haze of this terrifying isolation. Toby had wondered about her, she could see it in his inquisitive face. He looked at her pale face and licked her hands. She had wondered if she should leave, but she couldn’t step out of the house at the moment. Perhaps he would fly into a temper again, perhaps she would upset him again – anything could happen.

_He did allow you to go._

This meant nothing to her right now. He had, he would, he could – it was all conjecture made by someone who was captive and powerless. There was no truth to her analysis.

Another part of her was properly horrified by her own turn of thought. He _allowed_ her this – he _allowed_ her that. Perhaps she ought to put the manacles on her wrists herself, for all the good her sense of determination was doing.

And then if he could allow her anything, he could take it away.

_What about the spell?_

It was her body! _Hers._

April arrived with a promise to be better. She had thought February would be the worst of it, but it was clear that everything could fall apart at any moment. At any moment, she could become simply another toy to play with.

Her heart nearly stopped when she saw the darkness converging these days.

* * *

 

She peeked out from behind the kitchen door.

Moriarty was sitting on the kitchen table.

His feet were comfortably resting on one of _Molly’s_ footstools, his hand lazily holding a book. One finger carefully flipped pages.

Molly’s stomach felt like it would fall apart.

She didn’t knock the door, but she entered softly.

“Good evening,” he said, without looking up.

Molly nodded.

She had dinner ready. The house was watching her inattentively. When the spoons rattled on the plate as she carried them, the house gently lifted them from her hands. Molly felt unbearably grateful.

“Have you not eaten?” asked Moriarty with supreme unconcern.

“I’ll eat later,” she said.

Moriarty did not say anything, at that. He began to serve food by himself – which was better for Molly’s peace of mind, in any case. He served himself the chicken, the bread, and the soup – without any care for the courses. Molly’s carefully made bread was unsliced and laid out on a plate, and Molly didn’t make any attempt to step forward and slice it.

Molly’s eyes shut automatically when he snapped his fingers, and the bread sliced itself.

When she opened her eyes again, he had paused. He reached for the bread, regarding her involuntary reaction deliberately. Molly felt a shiver run down her back.

That was when he did something odd.

Moriarty deliberately took a bite from everything in front of him. The bread, the chicken, the soup, and even the salad. Molly waited with bated breath.

He pushed the plate towards her.

“Please, eat,” he said.

It was not a command, she recognised. But it was… something.

She sat down opposite him, pulled the plate forward and took a bite from the bread. She chewed it slowly, deliberately, carefully.

In a flash, she had an image of him in the West Wing. Of him touching her hair during her early days.

She had to swallow now. She had to.

When she had forced the bread down her throat, she felt unbelievably sick again. “May I be excused?” she asked.

He nodded shortly.

Molly dashed into the backyard to be ill.

* * *

 

She looked at her feet. Her fingers laced into her toes, her bare feet feeling the warmth of her fingers. Her nose was buried into her knees.

She smelled of mint.

She would do anything to rid herself of that. The more she thought about it, the more she felt the sense that her senses had been invaded. Her eyes, her smell – her touch, her hearing. Everything, everything.

“Oh, Molly,” she murmured.

Time for dinner.

He had told her he’d be there. He’d been a little too soft for her liking – a little too gentle with his handling. She wondered what game he would play next.

Molly got up then. She dusted her dress, and shut her eyes. The kitchen was rather a mess, but she could allow herself that much.

She had to serve dinner. She had put her boots on. She had to _move._

Molly’s arms felt numb, but she began heating up the pots and pans. She began readying the plates, and as she stepped upstairs to the dining room, Moriarty was seated at the end of his rather ornate table.

“Oh – I – must be late –” she began.

“I’m rather early,” he said. He sounded impassive.

She didn’t say anything, but stumbled forward to lay the table. As she stepped forward, her finger was close to the forks near his plate. His ornate plate again – the blue one, the pretty florals in the border. His hand came close to hers – just enough, just enough, just _enough –_

Molly flinched.

He was holding his breath then, she knew. She simply wiped his hands on her apron, and rushed out of the room.

She leaned against the door then, her breath speeding, her heart racing, her inability to breathe becoming clearer and clearer to her.

_CRASH._

Molly jumped a mile in the air before she realised that something had broken.

She tentatively opened the door, to find Moriarty standing over the shattered pieces of a vase. A beautiful, antique one. Pieces lay everywhere – under his shoes, under everything. She’d have to clean it – brooms, dust pans, pieces – he looked _furious._

Her heart stopped.

He hadn’t seen her clearly, he didn’t know she had entered, but she had never seen him look quite as uncontrolled – quite as unselfpossessed, quite as – as – as – human.

But she couldn’t think beyond the look of anger. The frowns lines, the coldness of his eyes, the turn of his mouth – she couldn’t _breathe._

When he looked at her, she took an involuntary step backwards.

“Oh, _fucking hell –”_ he said – and his voice sounded so unlike him, she nearly bolted in that moment. He didn’t sound close to murder, he didn’t sound fascinated, he didn’t sound anything like himself.

Molly took another step backwards. Before he could stop her – and terrifyingly, _terrifyingly,_ it seemed that he had wanted to – she had run out of the room.

The wind touched her cheeks, the incomprehensible feeling of being so scarily alone returned to her. Her heart was crushed – and everything about the house seemed to expand – tower over her, over and over, over and over. The windows seemed to stretch to the ceilings, the wood seemed to go on forever – and for a moment, Molly felt like she may never reach the front door.

She crashed against the door. Her hand fumbled on the handle, and the wood creaked when she opened it. It groaned with disbelief, almost. It mumbled. It screamed.

The air outside was still cold – still chilly, but getting a little warmer. She could breathe.

She _ran._

She knew she shouldn’t, but Toby didn’t occur to her, the house didn’t occur to her, Moriarty didn’t occur to her. She ran and ran and ran – she ran away from everything behind her, from herself, from her room, from colours. She wished she could disappear again, she wished she could run into a frozen stream and the water might fill her lungs and she may never wake again. She wished she could bury herself into the snowless ground and never open her eyes. She wished, she wished, she wished.

The firs covered her. The firs – touching the sky, dipping into the night, tickling the stars. They seemed to converge over her when she heard a high, _feminine_ sigh.

“Dear me.”

In front of her, what she could only assume was a ghost – white, white, white. The ghost bent forward, near her ear – and Molly smelled Jasmine, cloying scents of roses of _flowers._

“So the little beastie found her legs?”

* * *

 

This had to be a joke.

Molly tugged at her wrists, sighed, and decided to look up at the sky. The rope was old fashioned, but as her companion had said succinctly – she couldn’t cast a spell on Molly’s body, what with Molly’s magic protecting it.

For once, she had been grateful to Moriarty’s magic. Molly had to wrap the rope around herself.

It was terrifying how easy it was to ignore her body’s signals to her – her heart, her ribcage, her shaking, her voice, her racing mind. All was ignorable – in fact, all was ignorable simply to carry out tasks that were given to her with efficiency. 

“You’re rather calm for someone being abducted,” said her companion cheerfully.

“You see, one gets used to it,” Molly said, struggling to follow her.

The ghost of the forest looked at her and smiled. “Of course.”

Molly would have had a sharp retort if her heart was not exhausted. If her heart did not feel rather like a mop – not one billowing in cool, dirty water. One that was squeezed and sponged and wrung out to dry.

The ghost was not a ghost at all, that much was very certain. It was the dark haired woman from Moriarty’s dinner gathering, the one who looked at her with blank eyes.

The black of the tree trunks looked skeletal. They looked rather like monsters, like monsters, looming in front of her.

“Do we intend to walk to wherever you wish to go?” called Molly to her companion.

“By all means, if you wish to go to London walking,” said the ghost.

“The kidnapping business among the fae community has suffered greatly,” Molly commented conversationally. “No magical binding, I had to tie the rope around my wrists myself – and we cannot even magic ourselves away.”

The ghost’s dark hair rippled in the forest. The moonlight shimmered on it. “Amusing beastie,” she murmured.

“I’d have you laughing till the end of time before you know it,” said Molly. She tugged at her skirt, which was caught in a sharp branch. It did not budge.

The ghost looked at her carefully. “You’re rather pretty, are you not?” she asked.

Molly was immediately and intensely self-conscious. “No,” she said.

“Humbleness becomes no one, little monster,” said the ghost. She walked to the branch, tearing the skirt from it.

Molly looked at her stonily back. “I was fond of that skirt.”

“You can mend it,” sneered the ghost. “Now come. We must leave his boundaries before performing undetected magic.”

Molly trudged forward. _God help you, Molly Hooper. In a fresh new scrape, to say nothing of the previous one. And where is this fountain of wit coming from? You filthy little hypocrite, you could barely speak in front of Moriarty._

Perhaps she regained her wits every time she was kidnapped. Five kidnappings later, she ought to be a court jester. Perhaps the Queen would do the needful.

She turned around, briefly looking at the distantly disappearing lights from the manor. There was a single flame in the west wing, flickering from the distance – weaving in and out of the blackness of the forest.

The light faded away.

Distantly, there was the sound of tinkling glass. Breaking glass.

Molly stopped on her tracks, unable to tear away from her view of the manor.

“I suspect your master is having a tantrum,” soothed the ghost. “Enjoyable, is it not?”

Molly looked back at the ghost.

“What should I call _you?”_ she asked.

The ghost tilted her head and regarded her. “You may call me whatever you wish. My name, however, is Eurus.”

* * *

 

Moriarty chose to live in an abandoned manor that required almost constant repairing and refurbishment. It was dank, rather musty, and exhausting to maintain. It was situated in the middle of a skeletal forest, surrounded by a ground that seemed to draw fog to it magnetically. The bleakness of the setting was beautiful, of course, it was also almost certainly a ploy for drama.

Molly knew that should not have been her first thought upon seeing Eurus’ home on Half Moon Street but it was _._ The high ceilings were not terrifyingly haunted, they were airy and delicate – fragile as a glass toy. The furniture was tasteful and fashionable, intelligently located and rather intimidating. Molly didn’t care to guess the price of some of the pieces.

Somehow, it was more terrifying a residence than the manor. She knew her perception might be coloured by the fact that she was _friends_ with the manor, but she also knew that the sugar spun beauty of a London establishment had made her unbearably unhappy during the one season that she had spent in London.

Molly didn’t have a coat to rid herself of, and Eurus took off her coat. She hadn’t been wearing much more than her white nightdress, but Molly was beyond being scandalised by that.

“Drawing room, on your left,” directed Eurus.

Molly entered the room on her left. The parlour was by no means any less ornate, any less beautiful. The occupants, however, were even more so.

“Hello dear,” said Irene.

“Evening,” said Molly, twisting her hands inside the rope that bound her.

“I trust Eurus was not too uncouth.”

“Oh no, a very professionally conducted abduction,” said Molly blandly. “I’d have appreciated a lack of binding, but I do not fancy magical restraints.”

Irene’s lips twitched.

“This is her, then?” asked the third woman from the party. “The _scones_ girl.”

“I make very good biscuits, too,” nodded Molly. “And jams.”

Mary grinned. “Famous.”

“That’s enough,” said Eurus coldly.

“Mary,” said the blonde haired woman. “You are?”

“Molly. Molly Hooper.”

“Never give a witch your real name, sweetheart,” said Irene calmly.

“I said that’s enough,” Eurus stated. “Put the little monster away.”

Mary rolled her eyes. “Come, Molly.” She snapped her fingers, and the ropes around Molly’s wrists undid themselves. “Try not to escape,” she said cheerfully. “You’d most certainly –”

“Burn,” finished Molly. “I’m familiar. I would have thought some of you would develop your own _style_ while kidnapping.”

Mary was grinning so brightly, Molly almost had to look away. “I like _you,_ Molly Hooper.”

* * *

 

It was pretty.

The blue floral bedspreads covered a soft bed (too soft. Molly couldn’t sleep on it, not after months of using a hay mattress). The furnishings were feminine – a beautifully dresser stood in the corner – a window seat placed strategically to observe the rest of London, and a decorated with small blue cushions. The lace curtains complimented the room wonderfully.

Every inch of Molly hated it.

How much better was this from the small drafty room in the manor? At least she had been able to decorate that one.

She settled down on the bed, but was unable to make sense of its softness.

Her body felt wrong here. It felt wrong everywhere she went – every part of her was a wrong story. Why had anyone bothered writing her?

Here she was, trapped by magicians and witches and wizards – a toy for their games. She was so endlessly tired, her bones hurt. Her eyes felt like they were sinking inside the sockets of her skull. Her teeth felt terribly, terribly sensitive – as if her mouth had been vibrating with the constant clash of wills. The constant tiredness.

She was tired of being scared. She was tired of being the little beast that anyone would wish to capture – simply because she had caught the fancy of one monster.

Her body sank into the mattress. And she pressed the palms of her hands face down on her stomach.

She did not know this new ghost. This new monster. This new abduction. How long would it take for them to know where to hurt her? How long before they would realise that on this spot – just that much pressure, and Molly would be permanently damaged? How much damage had already happened? How alien did her body feel to her right now?

Fear was so _tiring._ Did none of these people realise that?

She looked upwards at the ceiling, and she decided that she no longer felt like moving.

* * *

 

The door opened (no knocking, never any knocking) and someone loomed over her – very female, very dark-haired, and very cold.

“Up, Molly.”

Molly blinked at the ceiling.

“No thank you,” she said politely.

“Do you not wish to eat? You don’t have to cook.”

Eurus’ voice sounded distant. Uncaring.

“No, I’d rather not,” said Molly.

“Are you having a tantrum?” asked Eurus boredly. “It really makes me wonder what is driving Moriarty to you.”

“No, I’m simply tired,” said Molly.

“That isn’t permitted,” said Eurus.

“Isn’t it?” inquired Molly genially. “Very well.”

The pain started slowly – Molly hadn’t an idea what she had done, but her body twisted in ways that she had never thought possible – from her toenails, and then climbing upwards.

She could feel her breathlessness as she tightened her muscles attempting to prevent the goddamn current from climbing upwards – _stop stop stop stop stop stop STOP –_ and her body fell apart. She couldn’t scream because that would require her to ignore the pain – and it wouldn’t –

It stopped.

Molly exhaled.

“Well?” asked Eurus kindly.

Molly didn’t get out of bed. She looked into Eurus’ eyes, and realised something truly essential: the pain had made sense. The pain had been important because she was tired of her heart feeling like it should be in physical pain.

“Boring,” she said and fell back into bed.

Eurus’ head tilted to the side and Molly felt sick to her stomach when she recognised the expression that she would not have been able to place once –

_Surprise._

* * *

 

If she hadn’t eaten in a few days, it was because her body now refused to move.

She didn’t know if she was capable of holding any food down whatsoever. Even water barely stayed. She wasn’t sure what was happening to her, but she found herself without a stray thought for hours.

And she slept. She slept and slept and slept.

She could hear the women chatting downstairs, and she wondered. She did wonder.

There was a knock (a surprise) on her door then, and the blonde haired women – Mary – entered.

“Dear, _dear,”_ she said cheerfully. “I wonder why people like Moriarty would fall over unimpressive specimens such as you, Molly Hooper.”

Molly didn’t look at her. She turned away, curling up into herself. “Ask them,” she said.

Mary’s voice had a distinct tenor that Molly had not heard in so long, she could hardly place it. “Come on, honey. Downstairs for something to eat.”

“No, thank you,” she said. Always politely with these people.

Molly turned over. Mary was regarding her with a softness that made Molly uncomfortable – that Molly was not used to. “What?” she asked.

“Why on earth not?”

Molly didn’t know how to explain it to Mary. She was tired. She was so endlessly exhausted, and she had no power over people like her. She had never asked to be dragged into this chessboard, and she resented being pushed like a pawn. She wanted out, and she wanted everyone involved to _leave her alone._

“You know you aren’t rebelling against anyone?” asked Mary.

There was that tenor again.

“And anyway, we can’t hold you for ransom if you choose to die,” she added playfully. “You’re quite as bad as Eurus’ little brother, what with your tantrum.”

Molly’s anger _flared_ briefly, but she ignored it.

Mary chewed her lip. “Oh, come on, we’re not hurting you.”

“Magnanimous of you,” muttered Molly.

She shut her eyes willing Mary away. Willing herself away.

* * *

 

He was looming over here – looming, looming, looming, she couldn’t see him in that minute. She couldn’t think of anything beyond how scared she was – she couldn’t even think about how all he looked like was just blackness. Just blackness, and eyes glowing in the middle. He lifted his darkened hands then, touched her hair – pressed his fingers into her skin.

She wasn’t sure it was him. He was all black, all shadow. She could see nothing but his eyes.

The shadow seemed to be enveloping her, cocooning her. Her eyes in shadow, her nose unable to smell anything but mint – her skin could feel nothing but the dark. It hummed silence in her ear, and it sounded like herself.

On her lips.

_Wake up –_

She jerked out of bed. The covers seem to be drenched in her sweat, her forehead chilled with her dream.

“Good dream?” asked a soft voice from a corner.

“A lot better than the one right now,” Molly murmured. She ripped the blankets away from herself. It was not cold, but she was chilly – and the sweat didn’t help either.

“And she found her claws again, did she,” asked Eurus. Her expression was blank again. When she asked questions, Molly always had the strangest sensation that she was being experimented on.

“Your metaphor is tired,” said Molly. She wished to turn away.

“So are you.”

Molly fiddled with her hair.

“I’m curious, Molly,” began Eurus. She didn’t emerge from the shadows – she simply leaned back in the blue armchair where she was located.

Molly waited.

“What seems to be so particularly special about you?” she asked.

“Oh for heaven’s _sake –”_ Molly hissed under her breath. “Stop. Please – stop this nonsense. All of you, finding yourself bored to death and deciding the first person who is able to manage a house and prepare scones is a fascinating subject for your curiosity.”

Eurus’ eyes widened further. Her hair seemed to ripple again, at that moment. She leaned forward.

“It would be boring if you called yourself _ordinary._ Particularly after the way Moriarty reacted to our attempts at negotiation. _”_

“I certainly am _not_ ordinary,” flared Molly. A part of her wanted to know just _what_ Moriarty had said or done, and another part of her was horrified at her interest.  “All of you cannot comprehend me, simply because I am too – too – too _wrong._ Not even wrong, perhaps – I might even just be unfitting! Not ordinary enough to be wrong, not magical enough to be otherworldly. This is not something I care to rectify, particularly since your response towards that which you cannot comprehend is to _trap_ it.”

Eurus was smiling. When she smiled, one side of her lips would crook upwards – as if she was simply unable to do more.

“I’m beginning to see it, Molly Hooper.”

“Lucky,” murmured Molly. She pulled her knees close to her chest. Her arms wrapped around herself in comfort. “All of you are terribly lonely. Different versions of loneliness.”

Eurus’ voice seemed to come from far, far away. “Why do you say that?”

“If you weren’t, would you be here?” said Molly into her knees.

Silence.

Her voice was so far away, it was a wonder Molly could hear anything at all. “How do you recognise it, little beastie?”

“It’s my loneliness,” said Molly.

The rush of blood in her ears should make it impossible for her to hear another thing.

She was certain Eurus was gone, as certain as she was that Moriarty had lost his temper. She didn’t know what he had done, but he had lost his temper. She shuddered at the thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love reviews!


	9. Red Hands

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HEY EVERYONE IM GONNA MAKE THIS SUPER QUICK BECAUSE I HAVEN'T A MOMENT TO SPARE. I HAVE A PRESENTATION TO PREP FOR AND THREE PLAYS TO READ SO YOU KNOW. STRESSED AF.
> 
> I SWEAR THIS CHAPTER ISN'T LATE BC I WAS BUSY, I HAD IT WRITTEN LAST WEEK BUT I WAS UNSURE OF IT SO I WANTED SOMEONE TO GO THROUGH IT ONCE BEFORE I POSTED IT. I SAID SO ON TUMBLR SO I HOPE ALL'S COOL BETWEEN US, MY PALS. 
> 
> IM SORRY I HAVEN'T RESPONDED TO YOUR COMMENTS, BUT ITS BC THE ABOVE SITUATION WITH THE PLAYS, HONESTLY. I WILL, I PROMISE. 
> 
> AND LASTLY THIS IS GONNA BE LIKE. BADLY EDITED BC I DON'T HAVE TIME FOR BETAING OR ANYTHING AND I HAVE BEEN MAKING MANY MORE MISTAKES. PLEASE POINT THEM OUT IF YOU WISH.

She wondered whether she should eat.

She didn’t think her stomach could hold much, and she had a little water. It felt odd to her – but she didn’t throw it up, which was, perhaps, a good sign. Maybe she could have a little bread – perhaps even a spot of milk.

She stepped out of bed.

Her feet felt odd on the floor as well. The wood felt curiously hard after the days spent in the bed. Her muscles felt frozen and unable to function. She gripped the bed hard before lifting herself off – stumbled, neatly – and gripped the bed again.

She’d noticed that some of her bones were hurting – she had a strong feeling that Eurus’ little torture had caused some bruised bones. Her right leg, and some of her ribs were in pain. She also sensed that her toe might have a hairline fracture.

She didn’t know where the need to preserve herself was coming from, but it was unavoidable. Now that she had decided to eat, she would eat.

She held the walls of the house (with the pretty pastel wallpapers, the pale yellow wooden panels) as she descended downwards. Into the lion’s den, as it were.

The lights of the dining room were still bright. The kitchen was close by, but out of a perverse sense of fascination she walked closer to the crack in the door through which the light flooded out.

“-Absolutely unreasonable, and you know it,” Mary was saying. “First off, she isn’t eating – and when he has her back, there _will_ be a reckoning and I’d rather not be the one to witness it.”

“ _If_ he does,” said Eurus quietly. Molly could only hear their voices but it was clear that they had been arguing about this for a while now.

“Eurus we agreed that we were not going to keep her,” said Mary warily. “We are _one_ portion of elf dust away from not having her on us anymore –”

“I like her,” said Eurus. Her voice was blank again, so curiously neutral that the hair on the back of Molly’s neck stood.

“So do I,” said Irene. “And I’m not sure what Moriarty has done to her. And I’m not keen on it, either.”

“I like her too,” said Mary. “Which is odd, considering how she’s done not much more than not eat since she came here – but keeping her here is _dangerous._ Were you not _there_ when he nearly lost control of his magic? I have known Moriarty for centuries and I have _never_ seen him that close to losing control.”

“It makes her all the more likable,” said Eurus.

There was a brief silence before Mary said, “This is not another _experiment!_ Eurus you have to negotiate with me. We cannot keep her – already I can sense the magic around the house surrounding us. Have you noticed that your brother has been quiet lately as well? I have a feeling he went to Holmes.”

“That should be a treat for you, Mary,” said Irene. She sounded oddly mischievous and teasing. “You shall meet John.”

“If you did this for me to spend more time with John, then I’m afraid you went about it in the wrong way,” said Mary coldly.

Irene must have been smiling when she said, “That’s rather sweet of you to admit, my love.”

“It’s not precisely _new,”_ grumbled Mary. “But we must return to Molly – regardless of how much we like her –”

“She has magical potential,” said Eurus finally.

Another silence.

Molly’s heart felt lighter suddenly. She shifted her weight from one foot to another – it was hurting her.

“I sensed it. I would have to touch her to know more, and its faint – but it exists. It might be stronger than I can sense it to be, in which case she learned to cloak it herself. If it is faint – which I sincerely doubt – she wouldn’t have been able to sustain the spell Moriarty cast on her for so long.”

“Does Moriarty know?” asked Irene.

“He must,” said Mary. Her voice sounded like she had been contemplating it for a while. “Why else would he cast the spell?”

“Perhaps he underestimated her,” said Irene.

“I sincerely doubt it,” said Eurus. “It is not in his nature to underestimate anyone.”

“No, I doubt it too,” said Irene. “In this very delicate balance, if you are a scientist, he is a chess player.”

“You flatter me,” said Eurus in a voice like steel. With the slightest, slightest bit of softness.

It occurred to Molly then that these women trusted each other implicitly. Naturally. As comfortably as she had trusted her sister.

“Well, what are we to do?” asked Mary straightforwardly. “I am fairly certain the younger Holmes – not Eurus, obviously – is on our tail, with his pet, no less. She cannot stay here forever – he will make sure to raise hell and highwater.”

“I confess, I did not expect this,” said Eurus. “The variables of affection, possessiveness, and overall empathetic caring were accounted for – yet, I did not think he would react so vehemently and with such utter disgust. And before we had raised our demands, too. The experiment went awry without a control situation, and I am not sure which variable we did not account for.”

“Her,” said Irene carefully. “You accounted for him. Not her.”

Eurus’ silence seemed to fill the head of Molly Hooper. Everywhere, every little corner of her mind was just her silence.

“You may be right,” said Eurus evenly. “I think we might be able to play chess master for a minute here – based, simply on his reaction. Let us, however, begin with diagnosis.”

“He cares about her,” said Mary. “That is obvious.”

“There is _more,_ however,” said Eurus. “If he cares about her, why did he allow himself to do so? Moriarty is not careless, and his loss of control has to have a trajectory. Why did he allow it?”

“I doubt he did,” said Irene.

“He must have scared her,” said Eurus slowly. “Here are the facts: she was in the forest, while I watched the manor – a stroke of luck, if you will. A stroke of luck that ran as far away as she could from the manor, her heart beating a mile a minute.”

“That would explain a lot,” said Mary.

“He would have shattered whatever trust they had built,” Eurus continued.

“If there was any,” Mary pointed out.

“And he lost her magical capability with that as well,” Eurus finished.

“I doubt that alone was his motivation,” said Irene.

“There are too many elements of the story that we do not have access to,” said Eurus finally. “We do not know if she has any trust in him whatsoever, we do not know whether he was attempting to tap into her magical capability, we do not know why he is reacting so strongly either. All we have is a shadow of a story.”

“He’s a contradiction,” murmured Irene.

“Forget him,” said Mary derisively. “It’s her that’s the variable – and it’s _her_ that we have not been thinking of _enough._ I think she has not thought of _herself_ enough.”

Molly felt a strong kinship for Mary in that minute.

“Women are not accustomed to thinking about themselves, my love.”

“Well, we ought to begin there,” said Mary firmly. “Perhaps she has something to say.”

She had heard quite enough. The conversation seemed to be ending there, and she had to leave. She was hungrier than ever. Molly’s being sunk deep into her body. _Did she?_

She turned quickly – opening the door that led to the kitchens. Her mind was racing again – across the London sights, reaching for the stars –

_Did she have anything to say?_

* * *

 

She was staring up at the ceiling.

Had he known?

She agreed with the assessment of the others here – he had known, he knew she had magic. She didn’t know if he had known all along, but he had known.

She examined her fingers in the darkness.

Had she known?

She remembered how they had said she had learned to cloak it, and she hadn’t the slightest idea if she had. She didn’t know if she had – except – except –

She turned in the bed.

God, she missed Elizabeth.

* * *

 

There was a knock on her door the next morning.

“Molly?”

The voice employed was not blank or neutral, or curiously testing – it was unbelievably soft for its dispassion.

Eurus entered the room.

Molly was curled up tightly on the window seat. She stared outside the window, to London.

The smoke of London chimneys settled on the city like a layer, a fog that had wrapped each individual. The roofs of houses were littered with caught bits of leaves (green leaves. Green leaves) – newspapers, ink smudged on the fingers of nosy children and street urchins attempting to make a living. The chimney sweeps died tiny deaths while washerwomen beat their hands over their clothes, the factory workers milling over London’s secret underpasses to get to work.

And one Molly.

“What do you think of this fabulous little social experiment?” asked Eurus.

“It’s succeeding,” Molly murmured.

“I know. Fascinating, is it not? My brother likes to pretend he is the government, but I always find that rather amusing,” said Eurus. Her gaze settled over London. “He hasn’t a notion of how much of him is this sweltering mess of London.”

Molly looked at her. “Unfinished, as ever –” she said quietly.

Eurus was smiling a rare kind of smile, one that scared Molly a little. “Come on, little beastie,” she said. “We have much to discuss.”

She was dressed in a morning dress – plain, dark green. High collars.

Molly was in pale blue – her collar was a little lower. Somehow, she did not feel like the one who was revealing more, however.

In the parlour, Irene was wearing brown – and even in brown she did not manage to look nondescript in any way, shape or form. Mary on the other hand, was in the darkest navy blue morning dress.

“Good morning, Molly,” said Irene comfortably.

Molly settled down.

“Tea?” asked Mary.

She nodded.

The woodwork on the chair was exquisite. Molly gripped the handles. Mary poured out tea from a pretty China kettle, with golden patterning.

“We have to have a conversation,” said Irene.

“Have you been forced to begin it?” asked Molly.

“Why would they force me?” asked Irene curiously.

“I don’t know,” said Molly blankly. “I _might_ be attracted to you more than necessary.”

Mary coughed into her teacup. Irene smirked.

“Yes, they forced me,” she said finally.

“Good. Intelligent of you,” said Molly. She sipped her tea.

Eurus was standing by the window, looking outside to the street.

“So,” said Molly. “What is it?”

Irene and Mary exchanged a look.

“What is your relationship with Moriarty?” asked Irene slowly.

“Why do you wish to know?” asked Molly, putting her cup down.

“We want to ascertain what his motivation is,” said Mary carefully.  

“Lost his temper, didn’t he?” asked Molly.

Irene didn’t say anything. Mary sipped her tea.

“Did the house look alright?” Molly continued. “And Toby?”

A muscle in Irene’s jaw was jumping.

“I see,” said Molly. She meditated on the information. “I will kill him,” she pronounced.

“He is a very dangerous sorcerer,” said Mary, watching for Molly’s reaction.

“And his food was under my charge. As was his laundry and his bedroom. I simply have to add bedbugs to his bed to have him hurling insults at me.”

There was a small snort. Everyone looked up to the window – Eurus was laughing.

“Amusing little beastie,” she said quietly.

“Must you stand by the window and brood?” asked Irene crossly.

“Yes,” said Eurus.

Molly was trying to suppress a smile, too.

“So why do you want to know?” continued Molly. “If you want to know how he is coming for me, then I have nothing to say – he will find me, and by extension, you – and I don’t know if he will negotiate with you.”

“Do you like him?” asked Mary straightforwardly.

Molly blinked. “What?”

“Will he hurt you?” she continued. “We shall drop our pretensions now, Molly – we took you because we wanted to exchange you for another object, but we have found you not simply more valuable, but someone who is in imminent danger by a _man,_ no less. And we’d rather you were safer – so we are willing to negotiate with Moriarty, but we refuse to do so if you say no.”

Molly’s head tilted to the side.

“Had you not found me valuable, would you not have traded me regardless?” she asked. “Does that make you more dangerous to me than him?”

Mary looked deeply uncomfortable. Irene did not meet Molly’s eyes.

“Very well,” said Eurus. She turned away from the window and faced Molly. “We would have. What more would you like to hear?”

Molly shut her eyes. “Don’t do it again,” she said. “You do know that it’s rather simple?”

Eurus had her hypnotic gaze on Molly – fixed, unmoving.

“Alright,” she said.

Molly lifted her cup and took another sip of tea.

“Molly – you have magical potential,” continued Irene. She looked wary – testing waters.

Molly schooled herself to look blank.

“We would like to teach you. However, Moriarty –”

“He will not take me if I choose to stay with you,” said Molly. Her voice sounded exhausted in that minute.

“And how do you know?” asked Mary.

“I don’t,” said Molly. “I somehow – somehow – Moriarty respects a game if both players are allowed an even playing ground more. And if I make more of the rules, he will respect them. You, on the other hand are vulnerable if I choose to do so.”

There was another silence – a pregnant, pregnant pause.

“What is it that you want to know?” asked Eurus. “Don’t test us, Molly Hooper. You are itching for information and I know it.”

Molly chewed her lip. “What is _your_ relationship with Moriarty?”

Irene, Mary and Eurus exchanged a look.

“I will begin,” said Mary. “My relationship is very… comfortable with him. I know little of Moriarty, since he was, for many years, a well kept secret. After my own exploits as a sorcerer became notorious enough, I knew of the shadow sorcerer, Moriarty. Once I fell in with Irene, I have learned of his identity but I know precious little of him. How much ever I have known him over the centuries is nebulous – and, as far as I know – dangerous. He is a dangerous, dangerous man. I do not pretend to know him, but I _know_ him.”

Molly looked to Irene.

“We learned together,” she said quietly. “Many – many years ago, too many to count. We were not novices under the same master, thank god – I shudder to think what his master must have been. But he was a… name. We had heard of the novice with that immense a power, and I was a woman who knew she had to survive. We collaborated many times over the years – many, many times. Moriarty’s name has disappeared over the years. But I remember it – I remember it very well.”

“Were you lovers?” asked Molly.

Irene considered. “At times. One of the better lovers, but rather uninterested. It got boring after a while, and I was intelligent enough to realise it should not continue if it was boring. Who knows what Moriarty might do to that which bores him.”

Molly turned to Eurus.

“Oh, Irene has known him the longest,” said Eurus. “I do not know what you wish from me.”

Molly waited.

Eurus smiled. “I knew Moriarty because he was a little older than me – and I met his master. I met him when he was a lot younger, when he was a lot more unstable. He and I have an interesting relationship – what with our shared common ground, which is my brother. Who thinks I am dead, which is an added facet of interest for him. He enjoys control over situations, I enjoy control over experiments.”

Molly leaned back in her chair.

“Were _you_ lovers?” she asked.

Eurus examined her fingers. “What answer do you wish for, little beastie?”

“And I’ll thank you both for keeping him away from _me,”_ said Mary. “You ought to rethink the kind of men that you enjoy the company of.”

Molly looked at her feet.

“That includes you, Molly,” Mary added sharply.

Molly went pink.

“So, will you stay? Or will you return?” it was Irene who asked, but she seemed to know the answer.  

She thought of the house – the kitchen, the garden with potatoes. She thought of Toby, outside her door – her room, with the straw mattress, the wall covered with notes, she thought of the house – creaking and clanking and responding to everything she said. And then, she thought, almost instinctively of _him –_ his face, when she had flinched, his careful – careful tiptoeing around her. Him seated in his chair by the fireplace, touching his pulse.

She looked up at the high ceilings and the French windows. “I would like to return,” she said.

* * *

 

Molly felt light.

On her eyes – there was a yellow, or something white, perhaps – that had settled and felt inescapably warm.

“ _Up,_ Molly Hooper!” called Irene.

The light that was on her eyes suddenly became much brighter. Her eyelids fluttered open.

“What?” asked Molly, rubbing her eyes.

“You have to prepare your valise before leaving,” said Irene firmly. “I refuse to return you to that godforsaken house with fashions from who knows which century that you have to mend and yarn. One of those dresses had an empire waist, Molly – it will not do.”

Molly sighed. She sat up in bed and looked at Irene, who looked a picture of morning beauty – her curls perfect, her eyes bright, her dress immaculate and pale purple.

“And you must carry a lot of food with you – and Eurus told me that you were fond of medicine, so we have procured a full medical store for you. Please maintain it well – it has some rare herbs. And I have a little more added – a few underclothes, some supplements that you could choose to be creative with,” said Irene with a wink.

Molly stepped out of her bed and into her slippers.

“We’re also leaving you with a two way mirror,” said Irene, looking through the wardrobe and pulling out dresses at random.

“Mm?” asked Molly, putting on her dressing gown.

“For communication. If you need to speak to us.”

Molly blinked. “That’s very kind of you,” she said.

“Mary insisted,” said Irene simply.

“I hope you are not discussing me without me,” said Mary, her head popping into the room.

“All we do is complain about you, my love,” said Irene, judging a pretty red dress.

Mary stepped inside. “Very kind of you to do it without me,” she said. “Take that one. And don’t give her the lavender one. She looked very pale. Use the darker one instead.”

“Thank you for that, Mary,” said Irene, striding to the bed and putting dresses down.

Molly rubbed her arm. “What happens next?” she asked. “It is all very well for me to pack – there must be more steps forward.”

“We’re meeting Holmes,” said Mary. “We might be able to negotiate what we need with you.”

“Oh,” said Molly, fiddling with the sleeve of her night dress.

Mary turned to Molly. Irene was suspiciously silent as she arranged the dresses. “He’s asked for you.”

Molly looked at Mary. “What?”

“Holmes. He says you have to be there at the meeting.”

Something was stuck in her throat.

“We think it is because Moriarty will be watching. If he is, then perhaps he’d want to see you.”

“No,” said Molly with a sigh. “He’s not an idiot.”

Irene finally turned away from the dresses. She was scrutinising Molly. “Is it because he intends to take you, then?” she asked.

“That would be pointless. He already has you on the negotiating table – and I’d wager this Holmes – is very close to finding my location.”

“Then why?” asked Mary.

“He wants to see how you react to me,” said Molly tiredly. “And me react to you.”

No one said a word. Molly meant business when she said this, it was clear – that they _had_ a relationship. That they didn’t have one. That they were on the chessboard.

That Molly was on it as well.

* * *

 

Molly was wearing blue again.

She touched the elaborate arrangement of her hair that Irene had prepared. She didn’t want a strand of her hair out of place, yet she had the urge to make sure that it hadn’t, actually gotten messed up.

“You look perfect,” said Irene under her breath. “Focus. Holmes will be arriving soon.”

“What’s he like?” asked Molly. She had wondered why Mary hadn’t come with them, and Mary had only replied that she had to bother John; and that when Molly saw _Holmes,_ she’d know. Molly hadn’t the slightest idea who John was, but it was clear that the two of them were engaging in some odd sort of courtship. If you called negotiating kidnaps a courtship.

The place they had selected was rather posh, Molly noted. Ladies dined in corners with large parties. Some male companions were smoking together. The Chocolate House was an expensive one, and the patrons seemed to show it. Molly herself was sporting a rather expensive gown with more expensive jewellery.

She didn’t fit here.

She didn’t fit anywhere – Molly was a badly constructed puzzle piece, and one that somehow continued to be coerced in the game. She didn’t like it.

“Ah. He’s here,” said Irene. She put her cup of tea down.

Molly looked up.

The man who had entered was tall. He had sharp jawbones, and rather bones and angles all over. He was striking to look at – in a very unforgettable sort of way. His eyes were a contrast to his black and white appearance. He wore a tall hat which he gave to one of the valets, and looked at Irene.

The other man was shorter, kinder looking. Sandy haired, with a moustache (which didn’t quite suit him, Molly felt) – and with a cane which he was not using. Molly had a strong sensation that he was from the army. Molly wondered which of the two was Holmes.

The taller man looked at her. When he looked at her, Molly was ridiculously conscious of him. She was conscious of how his eyes flew across the rest of her body – analysing, weighing, judging, carefully categorising her.

Molly didn’t look away – she was uncomfortable, but she refused to look away.

“Judging the goods?” asked Irene with a smile.

“Adler,” said Holmes as he settled down across them.

“Mr. Holmes,” said Irene luxuriously.

It dawned on Molly that this was why Mary had not come initially. Holmes was attempting perfect distance, perfect apathy from them both. And Irene was a perfect antidote to apathy and coldness.

“Nice of you to meet us,” said John as he settled down.

“Molly – Doctor John Watson. Mr. Sherlock Holmes. Mr. Holmes is a detective who frequently consults with Scotland Yard, and Doctor Watson is his –”

“Partner,” finished Holmes. “Good afternoon, Miss Hooper.”

Molly nodded.

“This is Molly Hooper,” said Irene to their companions.

“Moriarty’s pet,” said Holmes.

Molly’s head almost automatically tilted to the side.

“No need to mince words,” he said comfortably. He was smirking at her, which Molly found distinctly annoying.

“Of considerable value, then, considering who her master is,” Irene pointed out sharply. Her eyebrows were arching upwards, a little further and they might touch her hairline.

“To him,” said Holmes shortly. “Not to me. Not until I find out _why.”_

Rather rude, this man.

“Would you disagree, Miss Hooper?” asked Holmes. “No doubt you will – it’s clear why you have decided to stay with Moriarty – you seem to be a lonely middle class spinster, dead parents – perhaps one sibling who is estranged from you. That’s obvious from your discomfort in your clothing, and your single status is clear by the lack of a ring. Your parents have to be dead, or you would have been noted missing a while back – and I looked into the village Moriarty says you come from, Miss Hooper. No one has missed you. Your own struggles with power and community have naturally left you wishing for more, and I suppose Moriarty provides it – along with other opportunity. What kind of deal have you struck with Moriarty?”

Molly frowned. “Why are you asking? Do my tea leaves not give it away?”

John snorted into his tea.

Holmes would have bared his teeth if he could. “I want to know, Miss Hooper. Why does he care – why does _she –”_ he looked at Irene “- and why are you here?”

“Wouldn’t you do me, Mr. Holmes, if you wanted to find out?” Irene said, her prettily painted lips forming perfect words.

Holmes looked back stonily.

Molly giggled.

His eyes swooped down to her again accusingly.

“Enlighten us, Miss Hooper,” he said acidly. “As to what is so terribly funny.”

“Why,” said Molly. “You are a funny man. You entered the room, decided what you thought of me and barrelled in with your questions without regard for what I would like to say. Besides, your judgements of my family history – of my life, of me – why are you telling me that which I know? I do not care to know it, Mr. Holmes. I suppose you thought I would be cowed into submission – which is a rather nice thought to have, when you know I have lived with Moriarty breathing down my neck for months. And lastly – you are rather keen on not being affected, but even I know that Irene is getting under your skin. Which _is_ funny.”

The hair on the back of Molly’s neck stood up a little.

She was being watched. She knew she was, and just as keenly – she knew from where. She looked upwards at the ceiling, and, where she assumed _his_ eyes were.

“Go away,” she told him crossly. She knew he didn’t. There were new rules here – a new playground. She could _feel_ his amusement, his smile. Irene gripped her hand for a second, and Molly felt the sharp vibration of magic.

She nodded discreetly. Molly was certain Holmes had noticed, but it was kind of her to try to be discreet.

Holmes was regarding her again. Not with judgement, with interest.

So was John Watson. He looked at her with growing admiration. Irene was smiling knowingly.

Her nostrils flared. She looked at Sherlock with narrowed eyes. 

“Are you not with him of your own volition?” he asked.

“What do you think?” she asked rudely. “You attempt staying with Moriarty for as long as I did. Even you he would be bored of – within months, within days – maybe weeks. I have lived with fear for so terribly long that it is simply music that plays in my head at all times. I have been terrified, overworked, anxious, and frankly – I do not think my scones have been very good.”

There. Let _him_ hear that. Her scones were subpar, and that was _his_ fault.

“So how have you kept his interest, Miss Hooper?” he asked.

She looked at him irately. “I haven’t. I haven’t the slightest idea as to why he wishes me back, and I am returning because many people will be in danger if I don’t.”

Her heart fluttered at the thought – she was not certain of her motivations, not by a longshot. All she knew was that she preferred one monster to another – and did that not make her some kind of twisted?

That was when Mary chose to enter.

Mary was wearing her plainest – yet prettiest gown. She would look unremarkable if it wasn’t for the fact that Watson looked up almost instantly.

Oh, bother.

“Hello, John. Sherlock,” she trilled. Sherlock nodded perfunctorily, while John got up to greet her.

Holmes liked Mary.

Molly doubted he liked her romantically, but that he liked her was clear. She felt terribly wrong footed during this meeting – here she was, piecing together the stories of four people who clearly didn’t like telling them. And it was not because the story was painted on their faces – it was more because they were attempting to not tell them.

She looked away. Magic users of any variety were rather transparent, she had decided. They attempted to pretend to be dark and mysterious, but they were really rather readable.

He was still watching her from above. She didn’t appreciate it.

“How are you?” asked John tightly.

“I should ask that of you!” said Mary cheerfully.

My, but she was comfortable around the two of them.

“Don’t ask me –” murmured John. He sounded exhausted. Not as tired as Molly was, but certainly at the end of his tether. “What possessed him to take a case by Moriarty I will never know. We didn’t enter this with a lot of information either.”

Moriarty this, Moriarty that. “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Molly. “I am _tired._ I am sleepy. I had a lizard I had planned to dissect before I was kidnapped – _for the second time!_ And I just _know_ Toby would have eaten it by now. All of you can enjoy your respective obsessions with Moriarty. Leave me out of it.”

Holmes was scrutinising her again. Molly’s foot was throbbing, and she was not feeling up for a sparring.

“Convenient of you to return when he supplies you with food, specimens, and little to no supervision.”

Molly’s heartbeat slowed almost immediately. There was a sharp ringing in her ears, and the periphery of her vision seemed to disappear. Instinctively, everyone seemed to lean away from her – and Irene gave her a worried look before she touched her fingers.

Waves of anger radiated from Molly. She looked down on Holmes – at this rude, obnoxious, man.

“Oh you wish for a clever game, do you not?” asked Molly softly. “You would prefer it if I was operating out of a convoluted design because that would give you something to deduce. It must have been rather _easy_ for me to win the trust of the house, to force Moriarty to bring edible supplies in. I would have rather enjoyed being terrified, would I not – with the prospect of rape, murder, cruelty, anger – all hanging over my head.”

Holmes didn’t look remorseful. He did look a little taken aback.

“All of you are exhausting,” said Molly. She looked up and found John Watson looking at her with some sympathy. _Good,_ she thought savagely.

“Moriarty wants you back,” said Holmes shortly.

“Good for him,” said Molly, crossing her arms.

“He’s willing to negotiate – within reason.”

“Most gracious,” said Molly acidly.

“And he wants to know if you wish to return,” finished Holmes.

She glared at the ceiling. “Within reason,” she conceded, unfolding her hands.

Irene leaned back in her chair. Mary instinctively gripped Molly’s fingers. “It was rather nice of him to host dinner that day, to unveil his new little commodity. We want the light elf dust. And we don’t want a pinch, we want a bag.”

Molly let out a short bark of laughter. Holmes narrowed his eyes at her.

“I have demands, too,” she said. “I know you’re watching. You’d better come and meet us. I am tired, and I _will_ have my way this time.”

Irene got up with a smile. “Always a pleasure, gentlemen. I must say, I had to do a lot lesser than I expected to.”

John Watson gripped her arm as Molly started to leave. She turned to Watson abruptly – briefly catching the ripple of anger that Moriarty had emanated. “Look – if you need to escape – you could contact us –”

Molly didn’t know what to say. “That’s kind of you, Doctor. Rest assured – do not try to save me now, I doubt I qualify as a damsel in distress any more.”

John Watson left her hand, and Molly flexed her fingers. Irene gripped her hand.

“Some other time, dear?” asked Mary, putting her coat on. She kissed Watson on his cheek, and Molly was certain he was a little pinker. “Perhaps we ought to meet for dinner sometime. I’m sure Mrs. Hudson wouldn’t mind having a little company, don’t you think?”

Sherlock looked at Mary challengingly. She winked.

And they swept out of the place quickly after that.

* * *

 

The simple, pretty setting was possibly not conducive to the shadow appearance. Which meant that Moriarty used that in the manor simply to be dramatic – for one moment he was not there, and in the next moment, he had appeared.

“Afternoon, everyone,” he said graciously.

Eurus continued to embroider, oblivious. Irene decided not to look up from her own book, and Mary seemed to be busy cleaning a revolver. Molly sat on a tall armchair, looking at him.

Molly’s arms folded again as she regarded him. “Well?” she asked.

“What are your demands, little one?” he asked softly.

She didn’t say anything. It was clear to her what she wanted, but she didn’t know if he would understand. Irene’s heart beat had increased tenfold – all of these Gods and Goddesses that surrounded her, and it was clear that Molly was the only one who was in control.

She raised an eyebrow.

He raised one back.

Finally, as Molly refused to concede defeat, he gnashed his teeth. In front of Irene, there was a small bag.

“It’s _half,”_ he said. “And that’s what you get.”

Molly unfolded her arms. She looked at Irene. Irene smiled the slow smile of satisfaction that proved to Molly that she was pleased.

She got up. “Alright. We shall leave,” she said. Irene looked at Molly’s face searchingly. Molly nodded perfunctorily, yet Irene’s face did not relax. She summoned Molly’s valises.

“Alright,” she said softly.

Irene gripped her by the wrist when Molly turned to take the valises. With a sharp tug, she dragged Molly closer, and kissed her full on the lips.

Molly’s heartbeat increased exponentially – immeasurably, unbelievably. Irene’s hands were lost somewhere on the lower half of her corset – the other in her hair. Molly instinctively pressed herself to Irene’s lips, her hands touching the buttons of her dress.

Finally, Irene left her. Eurus was continuing her embroidery, but Molly could swear she was smiling. Mary looked noticeably disgruntled. “Now, why can’t John do that?” she demanded.

“He’s a man, dear,” said Eurus, pulling her needle.

“Do let me know if this isn’t satisfactory,” said Irene, motioning to Moriarty. Moriarty’s face was absolute stone, and even Molly knew that he was very close to losing control. She swayed against Irene’s and nodded.

“Lovely to do business with you,” said Irene, her head tilting to the side from behind Molly and addressing Moriarty.

Molly stumbled to Moriarty, who held her hand tightly. She placed her hand in his, and she was struck by the lack of a shudder – by the lack of fear. Molly touched her lips and the last thing she saw was Moriarty’s face. For the smallest moment, he didn’t look like he might murder her – he didn’t even look close to playing a game.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LOVE YOU ALL PLEASE REVIEW I PROMISE TO RESPOND 100%


	10. Peek-a-Boo

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> heeeeeeeeellllllllllllllllllllllloooooo 
> 
> FIRST OF ALL, I'D LIKE TO THANK AngelaLives for betaing and being FABULOUS and wonderful, they're A TREASURE. 
> 
> SECOND OF ALL, I'd like to warn everyone about my magic system - I'm kind of making it up as we go, and it's a very soft magic system. I might not always have explanations for things. 
> 
> AND ALSO THANK YOU FOR ALL YOUR REVIEWS. 
> 
> ALSO SHOUT OUT TO IRIDOGORGIA AND THEBOOKISHTEA FOR BEING REAL FAB THIS WEEK AND INSPIRING ME A LOT

The wind whipped across her face again. She wondered why winter still remained in pieces –scattered in moments across the manor – when it was already April.

She left Moriarty’s hand then, and he didn’t make a comment. They stepped into the house, and Molly noticed, almost at once – that it was rather in tatters. Molly’s eyes roved across the house – one of the windows was broken – and a small, heavy object had been thrown through it. Some the chairs had been toppled over – in what was clearly a _tantrum._ The house was silent, and Molly sensed the mood almost instantly. They were licking their wounds.

“What did you _do?”_ asked Molly angrily. Her legs were hurting – but now was not the time, not the time to nurse wherever she had been hurt.

Moriarty did not respond. He felt cold, then – he walked away from her rapidly and into the study.

If she thought the house was a mess, the study was a _disaster._ Books had been tossed at random, pages strewn across the floor.

“You cannot not _answer!”_ she said, stomping over – her heart breaking over the pages. The house hadn’t even come to greet her – which scared her a little.

“The dog is cowering somewhere in your room.”

“What did you _do?”_ asked Molly again, her voice low. Her hair crackled with energy – it was the manor, she knew.

“Let’s just say that you ought to never have me lose my temper, Molly Hooper,” said Moriarty with a sneer. He settled down on his armchair – there wasn’t a fire, everything was rather dark in the room. There was only whatever light the fading evening provided.

“It is not my responsibility to keep your temper in check,” snarled Molly. “Why would you lose your temper, in any case? Would you like to admit to a weakness?”

Moriarty looked at her. His eyes fluttered across her body, his dark stubble (how long had it been since he shaved? Molly didn’t know) casting his face in a beautiful shadow. His suit looked rather fetching in that moment, and Molly was curiously aware of how broad his chest was – and how temptingly strong he looked.

“Yes,” he said quietly.

Molly’s anger evaporated in an almost instantaneous surprise.

“You do?” she asked.

“Would you like it in writing, dearest?” asked Moriarty. He was being irritating again.

“Would you consent to giving it?” asked Molly testily.

“I almost certainly would not,” said Moriarty.

Molly rolled her eyes. “I’m still cross,” she said.

“Oh, this is absolutely _exhausting,”_ said Moriarty, rolling his eyes – his head lolling to the back of the chair. “If more than this is required to win over a woman, I refuse. You may leave this minute.”

“I may leave anyway,” Molly pointed out.

“Is that the correct sentence structure, Little Molly?” asked Moriarty with a grin.

“You look _\- odd”_ said Molly, eyeing his stubble suspiciously.

“Oh – you can be honest,” said Moriarty, his face perfectly shifting to mimic a comical impression of worry. “How do I look?”

Molly frowned. “Terrible. Why haven’t you shaved?”

“I was pining, dearest,” said Moriarty with a grin.

“Don’t –” said Molly with a sharp gasp.

Moriarty stared at her. Molly took her boots off, folding her legs under her in the armchair. Her legs throbbed with pain – damn _Eurus._ There was still a lack of a fire – the dusk light touching the curtains with the last finger tips of gold. He was looking at her – the long golden shadows lying like an unanswered question on her hair – and Molly felt self conscious. “What?” she asked.

His head tilted to the side. “Ah,” he said. “Once again, you surprise me, Molly Hooper.”

He was checking his pulse again.

Molly pressed her lips together.

There were moments of silence, before Molly decided to tackle the problem. “No one is responsible for the loss of your temper but you. If you hurt the house or Toby the next time I am kidnapped, I will not return.”

“You plan to be kidnapped again?” asked Moriarty, amused. “I must congratulate you on your bravery. To walk into the jaws of murder time and again, and only come out more fascinated.”

“I live with you, don’t I?” asked Molly rudely.

Moriarty hummed under his breath.

She looked outside the window. “We have to talk,” she said quietly.

“By all means,” said Moriarty, baring his teeth. “You may speak. I can choose to not respond.”

“I dare you to maintain silence,” said Molly.

Moriarty was smiling at her. “Miss me?” he asked.

“Miss you like I missed a toothache,” murmured Molly. “Miss you like I missed having some peace.”

Silence.

“What does the elf dust do?” asked Molly. “Why was everyone so keen on it?”

Moriarty flipped a coin between his fingers. It danced in the disappearing sunlight. “In a world of locked secrets, the man with the key is king,” he said softly. “And darling – you should see me in a crown,” he sang.  

Molly chewed her lip.

“It breaks locks?” she asked.

“No,” said Moriarty quietly. “Light elf dust is even rarer than dark elf dust – almost impossible to obtain, now that all the light elves are dead. It has innumerable properties – memory control, magical enhancement – but one of the things it does best is reveals secrets. Recreate magic – recreate lost magic, lost sentences, lost voices. And magic is a secret right now, Molly Hooper – not from everyone else, but from magicians themselves.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s a rather lost art. Don’t see any magical schools, do you?” he asked. “We train. We each have different ways to do it – we learn magic ourselves, and then we deploy them in the world. Some things are universal, but so many are secret. Don’t underestimate what some magicians would give for this – there have been aeons of magic, lost with the voices of everyone who didn’t bother giving up their secrets.”

“Oh,” said Molly.

Molly picked a few stray strings from her dress. “How long did you know?” she asked.

Moriarty raised an eyebrow.

“About me being magical.”

“The moment you spoke to the house and understood it,” said Moriarty.

“Oh,” said Molly. “Why didn’t you say anything? You were horrible to me.”

He was smiling at her in an uncomfortably obvious way. “You were testing me,” she said.

“How well you know me, Little Molly.”

“Practice,” said Molly vindictively.

Moriarty grinned. The sunlight had disappeared from the room. The blueish hue of incoming midnight cast a shadow over the room. Everything seemed a little blurred around the edges, a little like softly drawn lines. A watercolour in the making.

“I didn’t know of your potential the moment you entered the house,” said Moriarty. “I knew of it a little later – the house hasn’t spoken, not for centuries. Souls are trapped in the heart of it, and one would think the cacophony would be unbearable – but it never spoke. It screamed, at times, but never spoke. You spoke to it. You understood the language. Magic is a language, little one. Remember that.”

“A language?” asked Molly.

“Yes,” murmured Moriarty. He extended his palm in front of him – the shadows converged, making an outline of a rose – becoming more and more defined – more and more _rose-like._ “Those are my words. I spoke them, and they existed. It varies from individual to individual, but it is a language – each magician wants the words of the other. The secrets, as such. And when you understood the house, I knew. Because you gave some of the words to it.”

“To them,” corrected Molly.

Moriarty looked at her.

“The house. It’s not an it.”

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I _do,”_ she insisted. “They’re a little feminine, which is why I was confused. But I know they’re _them.”_

“It would make sense,” he said quietly. “Women’s magic is often understood by women far faster. A household-y language.”

“Perhaps if you let us out of the house, we’d have words for other things,” Molly said.

Moriarty stared. “Fascinating,” he muttered. “Either way. The house became a little stronger around you – a little _wordier._ A little noisier. I was certain you had built your own vocabulary, and without training, nonetheless. But you had concealed your magic well – too well, in fact. Eurus only knew you had magical potential – she didn’t know how much. I sensed it when I cast that spell on you, and how long you have sustained it without my help. Those were my words, Molly Hooper. You made them yours.”

She looked at her fingers.

“You were too well concealed, however. I wondered – I invited the most powerful magicians in the country, and no one sensed your magic. Even Eurus realised only later – once she had you in the palm of her hand.”

Her eyes were glued to her feet. So that was why she had felt so watched, that night. So terribly conscious of someone judging her.

“Where did you learn that kind of concealment?” asked Moriarty softly. “Must be a powerful person to have taught you.”

_Just pretend they can’t see you, Molly. You’re invisible. You’re in a mirror world._

“Not powerful,” she said wistfully. “Just protective.”

Moriarty watched her.

“It’s good magic,” he said.

Molly flexed her fingers. “Thank you.” She got up from the chair, and almost instinctively doubled over in pain. Her damned _leg –_

Moriarty had gotten up before she could look up. He held her arm and gently pushed her back into the chair. Molly flinched away from his touch then, curling up in the chair without thinking about it. “What did they _do?”_ he asked.

His voice was dangerously soft.

Molly swallowed.

“What did they do _?”_ he asked again, calmly.

“It’s not that bad –” she protested. He was scaring her, the way he towered over her.

“Do I look like I care how bad it is, Molly Hooper?” he asked.

“Will you hurt them?” she asked.

He considered. “No,” he said.

“Are you lying?” she asked.

“No,” said Moriarty.

Molly unwound herself in the chair. “Eurus,” she whispered.

She could feel his fists clench tightly. Distantly, she heard something breaking. Her head whipped in the direction of the kitchen. “A plate,” he clarified. “A plate broke.”

Molly wrung her hands.

Moriarty bent down in front of her. He sat at the foot of the chair, his hand hovering over her knee. “May I?” he asked.

Molly nodded, not trusting herself to speak.

The magic touched her gently – enveloping her bones, wrapping around her knee and covering her. The pain in her leg throbbed for a minute, for a second, for another half a second – and then it was gone.

“Thank you,” she said.

He was looking up at her – and Molly couldn’t help the racing of her heart. She couldn’t help wondering what it would be like to touch his face.

“You’re welcome,” he said. He got up, brushed his jacket with his hand. “Tomorrow, we train. Early in the morning, Molly Hooper.”

“What?” she asked.

“You wish to learn, do you not?” asked Moriarty. He looked at the window. It was perfect darkness now, perfect, perfect darkness.

Molly nodded again indistinctly.

“Tomorrow. Seven in the morning. Any questions?”

Molly swallowed again. “What is your name?” she asked in a small voice.

Moriarty looked at her then. She, in her chair, a little scared – a little brave, a little bit of a shadow.

“James,” he said. “James Moriarty.”

* * *

 

There was a film of dust on the bedspreads, on her notes, on the floor. Everything seemed to have been locked away, and it smelled a little like a hurriedly taken vacation. Molly felt rather like a poorly written character in the room, like there was someone who was hurriedly making her a real person – and if you looked a little too closely, she’d fall apart.

Toby was curled up in the corner. He didn’t look hungry, but he looked rather miserable. Molly patted his head and he whined plaintively.

Moriarty had fed him.

“Are you there?” she asked the walls. “Please come back. I miss you.”

The house had crept between the cracks of the walls, and settled behind Molly’s notes. “I’m sorry,” she said. “For whatever he did.”

The curtains fluttered wordlessly.

The windows creaked, and the wind blew across the room softly.

_I felt you gone._

The words were said into her mind, or perhaps spoken into existence by the creaking wood. Molly wasn’t certain. She crossed her legs and sat down on the floor.

“I know,” she said.

_You’re a right idiot for getting yourself taken away._

“It wasn’t my fault!” she said defensively. “Besides, that’s _twice._ I’m rather good at it now.”

_A broken plate is an easier sight than you._

“If I had known you would become so terribly _rude,_ I’d have never spoken to you,” said Molly, a smile playing in the corner of her lips. “Where did you learn to speak?”

_It was a long time coming._

“I suppose.”

 _My me-ness, or you-ness -_ I _think I became a thing while you were away. I don’t know how this thingness works._

They were rather enjoying the word “I.” Molly could understand the sentiment. It was a good word.

“That’s alright,” said Molly carefully. “Being a thing is rather easy.”

 _I’ve been_ feeling _things. Are you supposed to? It feels rather like badly cooked eggs._

“Well… yes, that sounds right,” said Molly.

The stars glittered brightly. Molly got up to look outside the window – the snow was gone, and the ground had emerged. The grass looked rather dry and cheerless – as if should you touch it, it would become dust. The dark of the sky was almost incomprehensible – almost incomprehensibly, the moonlight seemed a touch warm.

“How was he?” she asked.

 _Rather a broken plate himself,_ said the house cheerfully. _I felt you gone, but he seemed rather cross. And then the tall fellow came – he had rather window pane like cheekbones._

“Window panes?” asked Molly, confused.

_What do you call it – the thing that hurts, when you cut across it?_

“Ah, sharp?”

_That’s the one. That fellow was here – rather a little – what’s the word for when you have something stuck under a dresser?_

“Annoying?”

 _Annoying. That’s a good word. It seems to bring a lot of my_ thingness _together.  Anyhow,_ **he** _rather broke a lot of things while you were gone. I couldn’t understand a moment of it._

“I see.”

_What did he say to you?_

“That he would teach me magic.”

The windows rattled and the curtains whipped in the windless night. The house seemed rather thrilled at the very thought.

“Yes, well…” said Molly. “I’d better sleep.”

_Of course. Things need to wake up to do things._

Molly rolled her eyes, but she was… cheerful. The house left the room.

Toby looked up at her from his curled up position.

“It’s been a long night, Toby,” she said.

Toby yawned in agreement.

* * *

 

_UP!_

Molly jerked out of bed.

“ _What?”_ she hissed.

_You have LESSONS. **He** told me that word – so I know it’s good. _

Oh, god, a new _word._

“ _Why,”_ began Molly, rubbing her eyes, “are you chatting with Moriarty?”

_He seems more like you today._

“What?” asked Molly, confused.

_Willing to talk and all._

“Friendly,” said Molly. “A friendly person.”

_Yes! Friendlier. He’s rather friendly today. That’s a good word._

“I’m curious,” said Molly, crawling slowly out of bed. “You were a person before, were you not?”

_Many people. Too many people._

“Then why are words new to you?” asked Molly, putting on her socks.

They were quiet for a minute. Thinking about it.

 _Words aren’t new… they’re rather like – when you see someone, and you don’t know who they are, but you could_ swear _you knew them. And then when you point them out, it makes perfect sense._

“Familiar?”

_That’s the one. You see? And… it’s been – too many people here. I recall so many words which don’t seem to be anything you all say._

“Like?”

_Some I recognise from your books. I think some are Latin – Greek, a few. I think some are French. Then there’s others which I have no reference for – Garmi, Amma, ghar. I think a lot of my words are rooted in this language, which I cannot recognise._

Molly looked at her cupboard. “Hindostani. That’s from India. Was the last soul Indian?”

_Do you know, you might not be wrong._

“My father knew it. I don’t,” murmured Molly. “It sounded like a nice language.”

_Doesn’t it just?_

They seemed thrilled at the concept.

Molly bit her lip.

_Now, for LESSONS!_

* * *

 

Molly was waiting. The entrance hall was not warm, but luckily it was no longer freezing.

She was wearing her blue gown, the one that looked really good on her. She hadn’t an idea why she felt the need to look pretty on a first day of magical training, but she simply _felt_ it. She was clean, dressed – and she had made breakfast already. She was glad she had been woken up early, because she hadn’t an idea what she would do if she had been late.

She heard footsteps.

She turned around abruptly. “Are you using the _stairs?”_ she asked.

Moriarty grinned. “Can’t have you feeling too comfortable, after all.”

“Isn’t the shadow appearance going to make me more uncomfortable?” she demanded.

“You’re far too used to it,” he said. “There. Your heart rate has increased significantly.”

Molly glared.

“Off we go, Little Molly,” he said cheerfully.

“Outside?” asked Molly.

“Wouldn’t want to burn the house, would we?” he said, rushing past her and to the main door.

“What about burning _ourselves?”_ she asked, running behind him.

“Less of a chance outside. We aim at the trees.”

Molly was terrified.

* * *

 

The clearing near the manor was unremarkable in every way. Molly had been expecting burns on the barks of the trees, perhaps. Something to indicate that someone had been practicing magic here – everything was pristine, however. The cleanliness that can only be associated with a freshly melted winter and the approaching spring.

Molly rubbed her arms. She was nervous.

Moriarty seemed to be walking around the boundary of the clearing, murmuring to himself.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

“Wouldn’t want to be overheard. What with Eurus Holmes watching your every move.”

“Is she?” asked Molly.

“She seems rather convinced that I would eat you,” said Moriarty, his head inclining to her only minutely as he placed a golden barrier which seemed to fade after a moment. “I told her that you’re a little scrawny for a meal, but she’s welcome to try.”

“You would only be blessed to have me for a meal,” Molly muttered to herself. “And you wouldn’t know how to cook me, besides.”

“Certainly not. I would cook you very well – with Indian spices, too.”

“And perhaps you could serve me with white bread?” added Molly hopefully. “And maybe a few vegetables, as well.”

Moriarty was grinning at her.

“Why, I’m feeling hungry now,” she said. “What would I serve as wine, I wonder? I suppose it depends on the consistency of the meat, but I do –”

“That’s quite enough, Molly,” said Moriarty, and he was smirking.

Molly looked away, embarrassed.

“Alright,” said Moriarty, stepping away from the boundary. He turned to face her. “Let’s begin.”

Molly swallowed.

Moriarty stepped in front of her. “May I?” he asked, extending his hands.

Molly carefully put her hands in his. His hands were warmer than she had expected them to be, and she didn’t like that she had the time to think of this. Wildly, her mind reminded her that they had never touched for so prolonged a period – and Molly _really_ didn’t need to consider that, because it made her all the more nervous –

“Breathe,” he ordered.

Molly took a deep breath.

“Now shut your eyes.”

“Really?” she asked.

“It might shut off your general perception of your surroundings – and your surroundings are making you increasingly nervous.”

Molly shut her eyes instantly.

He was right. There was a blankness inside her, that furious, odd kind of blankness – which is both saying things and not saying anything at all.

“Are you not afraid I’ll eat you, dearest?” he asked softly.

“Always, sir,” she said, her eyes still tightly shut. “I don’t let it worry me too much.”

“What are you worrying about right now?”

Molly thought about it. “The breakfast. It might be cold now.”

Moriarty’s hands gripped her tightly. “What can you smell, Molly?”

“Green,” she murmured. “I smell green. Leaves. Trees.”

“What does it remind you of?” he asked.

“Summer. It reminds me of Elizabeth.”

“Why?”

“She used to string wildflower chains,” Molly said. “And put them in my hair.”

“What do they smell like?”

They smelled like someone had decided to speak Persephone into existence – and they had succeeded. Elizabeth had a way with the flowers – the twined stems were always perfect, always so tightly wound.

“They smell like – Peonies. The first snowbells after winter. Some wild primroses.”

The scent would invade her nostrils, and they had such competing smells too. Everything was terribly difficult in the spring, when the world seemed to be singing and all Molly wanted to do was sing with it. When they would have long days to spin magic together.

She could smell it now – everything, all together at once.

“Open your eyes, Molly Hooper,” he said.

Everything seemed a little blue for a moment – as it always is, when you open your eyes after having kept them shut for a while. Once the haze of blue had faded, and her eyes had adjusted to the brightness of sunlight, she looked around her.

Primroses bloomed at her feet, with bunches of snowbells, and hundreds of peonies. Molly smiled so easily – so comfortably, so ridiculously brightly, she was certain she must look like an idiot. The flowers were creeping up her dress, and she laughed.

She looked at Moriarty, who seemed terribly wrong footed for a second. He smiled cautiously.

“But they’re so pretty!” she said.

“It’s a happy memory,” he explained. “Olfactory senses are normally an easy cue for memory.”

Molly bent down, settling among the flowers – carefully touching the petals. “How did I do that?” she asked. “I thought it might be more – more –”

“Magical?” he said with something of a sneer. “I told you – magic is a language. Magicians are only able to make words do a little more than speak. Your words spoke.”

Molly didn’t say anything then, choosing to pick some of the flowers. She carefully started making a small bunch with all three kinds.

“How do you know who would be able to make their words speak?” She placed the flowers in her hair – amongst the pins and in the braids.

“The language gives it away,” he said.

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You will not,” he said. “Not for a while. Now let those go – we must begin.”

Molly looked at the flowers. “Would you like some?” she asked politely.

He was looking at her with yet another expression she was not able to place.

“For your coat,” she clarified. “I know it’s rather feminine, but they look rather nice, don’t they?”

His lips were a thin line. Molly handed him a primrose silently. Without saying a word, he put it in his button hole. “Are you quite finished with the roses?” he asked coldly. He seemed to be holding back a laugh. She didn’t know how he had balanced the two.

She nodded. “Alright. Yes, let’s begin.”

* * *

 

Molly fell face first into her bed.

Toby was sniffing her feet – which made Molly ticklish. If she’d had the energy to move a muscle, she might have shooed him away. Might have. She was lucky she had put the lamp down in the corner before she burned the sheets.

_How was it?_

“I am _exhausted,”_ said Molly, by way of explanation.

 _Good,_ said the house firmly. And they were gone.

She wished she could say more. She wished she could tell them – that she was so tired, that having your words do things took such a lot of out you. That for every word you seemed to understand, you didn’t understand so many more.

Moriarty had taught her what seemed to be a foundation. That if she wasn’t careful with what she meant when she used her words, she might be wishing to grow flowers and may cover the world in vines. That she could do anything which meant that she could do _anything._

She had never felt more careful with her words. Every single one of them seemed to be whispering now – things that left her mouth seemed a little more alive. That she didn’t understand half her words, and if she was going by what Moriarty had said, she had too much power to contain. Which scared her.

Her fingers extended in front of her, and she thought of Elizabeth again. “Peonies,” she whispered.

They bloomed softly from her fingers. They stems crawled like ants over her fingers, and she turned her hand as she watched the flowers grow.

“The sensation never leaves,” said Moriarty from behind her.

Molly turned over in her bed, and sat up straight.

“That tingle on your lips? No, you’re left with that,” he said.

She looked at her fingers again. “Do you get used to it?”

“Somewhat,” he said. “At times, you may lose control.”

“You haven’t,” she confirmed.

“Not in centuries,” he said with a comfortable, long sort of grin. Molly looked at the flowers that twined her fingers again.

“Let us speak into the universe then – but softly, in whispers,” she murmured.

“Or you could scream, Molly Hooper. You could scream your heart out.”

“You’re rather hypocritical,” said Molly. “When your every scream is calculated, every whisper designed.”

“Of course I wouldn’t force you to design your screams,” he reprimanded as if he were speaking to a child.  

“Why on earth should I scream?” she said mildly.

“Have you not wished to scream?”

“Haven’t I?” she asked. The peonies had crumbled to dust in her fingers. She stood in front of him, then, her fingers in fists – her shoulders wide, her feet spread apart. “Sounds rather lonely. Perhaps I ought not to scream,” she said, stepping forward, looking up at him. “Perhaps you ought to learn to speak a little softly.”

His head tilted as he regarded her. She could see a muscle jump in his jaw.

They were too close now – not imaginary close, _real_ close. They were close enough for her to feel the tiny distance between his lips and hers. Close enough for her to count the lines on his face. The flickering lamp had illuminated him well – she saw the black of his eyes, falling deep into some part of him no one had seen.

She distantly felt her hand grip his. Far away, she felt her heart beating so terribly fast – her stomach out of breath, her fingers gently touching his cheek. She was waiting for something terrible to happen, for him to stop her.

She shut her eyes.

Her lips pressed against his then – clumsily, for barely a minute. He tasted like the musty corners of hidden papers, secrets breathed into the ears of friends. Her eyes were still shut tightly, as if she had conjured him with her magic.

She opened her eyes.

He was gone.

Primroses bloomed at her feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love reviews!!


	11. Hide and Seek

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone! I am incredibly sorry for the delay (two whole months, hahahahahahaha i am dead) - but as I explained on tumblr, I was pretty much swamped with work, and the semester has taken a part of me in exhaustion. I was so tired, there was absolutely no creative output happening even a week into the holidays. And then tumblr decided to take a hit, as well. 
> 
> Speaking of - I'm not going anywhere from my current tumblr, but I'm pretty sure the use is going to fall from everyone else. I have physical back ups of all my stories, and I'm a safe blog, so I'm sure everything will be fine when I log back in. I'm planning on publishing all the prompts I have worked on eventually over here (there's a whole host of Molliarty, thanks to the dogged pursuit of BurningLostStars XD. 
> 
> I'd really like to thank the Molliarty community during these really difficult times, particularly BurningLostStars (whyimmathere), BookishTea and iridogorgia. AND I'D LIKE TO SHAMELESSLY PLUG THE GIFT STORIES IRIDOGORGIA AND BOOKISHTEA HAVE WRITTEN FOR ME. 
> 
> I've really missed you all, and I hope the next semester doesn't cause more delays here. To make up for them, I've made this chapter REALLY GOOD AND LONG.

Her eyes fluttered open.

She was looking up at the ceiling, the lightless black extending forever. It was not morning yet. Not morning yet.

She didn’t want to look forward to morning. When the sun rose, it meant that she had to go down and make breakfast. She would have to sweep the floors. She would have to make sure everything is clean. And then she’d have to head for the forest to practice her magic.

She’d have to meet _him._

* * *

 

Molly woke up badly.

Waking up would imply that she slept at all. She didn’t wake up as much as she stumbled out of bed – confused, having slept for a few hours – and weakly, at that. Having tossed and turned and woken up with her heart speeding up unnecessarily for no reason other than the fact that it _wanted_ to, and having smelled, all night long, primroses in her room.

She felt cold. Cold in a – a – cautious, kind of way. The way you feel cold in the mornings of autumn – unsure of how warm the afternoon would become.

And her heart sped up again. It was very _oddly_ timed, and entirely random, by her reckoning. As soon as her heart would speed, her stomach felt as if it was simply water.

Good _god,_ she was a damned _schoolgirl._

Molly’s arms were tightly wound around her stomach – willing it to settle down. Her stomach was refusing her categorically – and to her absolute _horror –_ she felt the coming of a _smile._

Was this what life would be? Smiling after kissing her captor, with _butterflies_ in her stomach? Good _lord._

It wasn’t a happy smile either! It was the unconscious variety, the one that really demanded an explanation from those who were watching and those who were experiencing it – and yet, it had none. And it occurred when nothing had been resolved, either! No sir, it wasn’t as if he had asked for her hand in marriage, and it was not as if Molly was willing to give it. In fact, there was not even a promise of further kissing.

Would she _like_ further kissing?

Molly fell into her pillow and screamed.

She really preferred it when her pillows contained the screams of frustrations at being trapped in an enchanted castle. There was more of a possibility of being dead by morning, but really, wouldn’t death be infinitely preferable to a _second_ kiss? Particularly if _she_ had to be the one to administer it _again?_

It was disturbing how close the two choices were.

 _You’re up early,_ said the house.

Molly screamed into her pillow again.

 _Oh, so you’re in a_ mood, said the house.

“Go away,” said Molly into the pillow.

_What did he do now? If he hurt you –_

To Molly’s surprise, they sounded quite angry.

Molly lifted herself from the pillow. “No,” she said.

_Oh. What is it then? You know you cannot escape doing the dishes today, it’s been a while – and I’ve been doing them for too long! No amount of screaming will let you out –_

“It’s not the dishes!” Molly exclaimed. “Although – _could_ you –”

_NO!_

“Fine,” grumbled Molly. “ _Fine.”_

What she needed – what she needed – was – Elizabeth. She needed someone to sit her down, sort through her feelings – and perhaps come to a logical conclusion about this all. What she needed was a _friend._ Someone who understood her, for better or for worse. Who would just tell her to calm down, and remind her that Moriarty was just a _man._

She scrambled out of her bed.

 _Oh, good,_ said the house. _You have class in a while, do you know._

“I have a minute, don’t I? Don’t leave, I need you to hear this.”

The mirror in her valise was wrapped in newspaper. She supposed it didn’t need more covering, being a magical one. Molly unwrapped it carefully – peeling the newspaper away. She gripped the ornate handle (why could a mirror not be a little more modern? Something a little lighter, perhaps? Magicians were simply _dramatic,_ that’s all there was to it) – and looked into it.

“Irene?” she whispered.

The surface glimmered. Stardust covered Molly’s fingers, and she looked at the spotty and cracked thing.

“Is everything alright, Molly?” asked Irene urgently. “Has he hurt you?”

She was showing patchily in the mirror – she saw the telltale trace of red, which must be her lips – the crisp blue of her eyes, and the sharp cheekbones.

“No,” said Molly. It was gratifying that everyone was concerned about him hurting her – at least she knew her murder wouldn’t go unsolved. “I need… advice.”

“Oh. As long as no one needs to be murdered for you,” said Irene.

“Very amusing,” said Molly, rolling her eyes. “Is everyone else there?”

“Oi, _Mary! Eurus!_ Molly’s calling!”

Molly watched Mary enter the room, wearing the something green cycling. She wondered where Mary was off to. Eurus was a blur of white, which meant her nightgown, and clearly without a care in the world.“Hello, dear,” said Mary cheerfully. “Should I be worried? It’s only been two days since you left.”

“No, I’m alright,” Molly promised.

She sensed more than saw Eurus quirking her eyebrow. “Did he kiss you?” she asked.

Molly blanched.

 _He **did?**_ the house all but yelled.

“Oh, _did_ he?” asked Irene with a blooming grin.

“ _No!”_ said Molly. “That is – _he_ didn’t – I mean –”

“Oh, I see,” said Eurus. “You did. Terribly sorry for the poor deduction – you see, I cannot see you, and I am limited to the tone of your voice and logical deductions based on Moriarty.”

“ _You_ did?” Mary said, her voice high pitched. She gripped the mirror, and took it away from Irene.

“Oh, _manners,_ Mary, really,” came Irene’s voice from somewhere.

 _Molly – how could you not_ tell -

“ _You_ don’t do the kissing. _He does!”_ Mary insisted.

“I _assure_ you it was the other way around,” said Molly, pinching the bridge of her nose.

Eurus’ voice was disturbingly haunting. “It has been a millennia since The Dark One allowed himself to be kissed.”

“Couldn’t have been that long,” joked Molly. “I did it last night.”

“You know Molly, I am just going to give you a glimpse at Eurus’ expression,” said Mary. She sounded gleeful.

Eurus looked so heavily unimpressed and yet so _highly_ amused, Molly was certain that she had been buried alive with simply one look.

The house had kept silent all this while, intently listening to the conversation between those with bodies.

“Well, _what_ am I to do?” asked Molly rather desperately.

“Was it better than me kissing you?” asked Irene from the background. “I was _really_ hoping you’d kiss soon enough – I wanted to make sure you remembered my kiss well enough to do a reasonable comparison. Eurus told me it wouldn’t take more than two days. She’s normally right about these things.”

The house was laughing. Everything in Molly’s room rattled. Molly glared at the ceilings.

“You were better,” said Molly shortly, knowing that she had to simply answer Irene or the conversation may never move forward. “But I _barely_ brushed against his lips, you see –”

“I really never thought you’d be one for gentle kisses,” contributed Eurus. “I deduced that you prefer to be dominated in bed. Did I make a wrong deduction again?”

“That isn’t –”

“Ooh,” said Mary excitedly. “Describe how he tasted! I’ve known him _centuries_ and I have always wondered.”

“Rather minty,” said Molly impatiently, “but listen –”

“Minty? Good heavens!” said Irene.

“ _Everyone!”_ Molly cried. “We can pour over the kiss _later._ What should I do _now?”_

“Why, that’s the simple part,” said Irene. “Kiss him again.”

“Isn’t that – isn’t that – _wrong –”_ Molly wailed.

“Did you like it?” asked Mary.

Molly regarded her fluttering stomach. “Yes,” she said softly.

“Then repeat it.”

“Thank you,” said Molly sarcastically. “Thank you very much.”

“‘Ta, Molly,” said Irene cheerfully. The mirror winked and then she was gone.

Molly fell back on her bed.

 _You really_ are _an odd one,_ sniggered the house. _So dramatic. What’s bothering you? Doesn’t seem too terrible to kiss again._

“I suppose,” she groaned.

_Are you worried he doesn’t like you?_

“No,” said Molly. “A little,” she amended.

_Good heavens, that’s an idiot if I ever saw one. Are you more worried you like him?_

“Yes?” said Molly softly.

_You are quite exasperating, Molly Hooper. You know very well you needn’t do anything you don’t want to, and you know very well that you simply have to head for class and not say anything to him. You have time to understand your feelings, don’t let anyone convince you otherwise._

Molly’s heart lifted. “It just – seems –”

 _Like human nonsense, I know,_ said the house smoothly. _It is a kiss, Molly Hooper. Not the end of the world – and it didn’t even sound like a good one._

“It was good!” said Molly defensively.

 _Yes. I’m sure a brush against the lips was most titillating,_ sighed the house.

“You know, you are _quite_ irritating,” said Molly crossly.

 _I’m irritating? You have lessons in an hour and all you have done is obsess over a_ boy!

“A _dark_ magician!” Molly countered, hoping this counted for _something._ “The _Dark One!”_ Surely she had a _right_ to mope about, like a stricken heroine in a romantic story. Surely it was quite a tragic circumstance, kissing your captor.

 _The oldest story in the history of the world, Molly Hooper_. _Don’t feel special – love tricks you into believing it’s rather new, when in reality – it’s a very,_ very _old story. I should know. I have hundreds of them within one consciousness._

“Fine,” said Molly crossly. She crawled out of bed. “And I’m _not_ in love!”

 _Good girl,_ said the house approvingly.

* * *

 

She paced in the entrance hall.

She’d chosen to wear the red dress Irene had given her. It looked rather fetching, if she did say so herself. Molly preferred practical clothing – greens and blues, ones which were built to last rather than look rather nice. But she needed courage this morning, and the dress would do.

She fiddled incessantly with the sleeves as she did so.

 _Stop fidgeting,_ ordered the house.

Molly settled.

Molly felt the shadows converge on the ceilings. She looked upwards, and the darkness roiled like clouds before he appeared. 

 _Oh good,_ she thought to herself. _This again._

Her stomach squirmed, and to her horror – it was not out of fear.

“Good morning, Molly,” said Moriarty.

“Sir,” she said tersely.

He was waiting, and she wasn’t sure for _what._ She tucked her hair behind her ear.

“Should we – should we-?”

“Of course,” he said, his eyebrows raised. “Lead the way.”

Molly felt a strong sense of foreboding – of being on the wrong foot, of somehow being _tricked._ She looked behind her and he looked perfectly innocent.

Was he _testing_ her?

He smiled angelically at her.

What was _happening?_ Had she missed a cue? Was she in the wrong story? Had she skipped a chapter somewhere?

When she didn’t make a move, he stepped in front of her. He looked at her, and she wished she could say the expression on his face was anything other than irritatingly impish. He offered her his hand. One step forward, one careful move away. Molly didn’t trust her reaction should her skin touch his – it felt oddly like tempting fate.

Yet she stepped forward – eyes pinned to his, daring him to do something that would cause her more distress than the distress she was already in. Suspicion and unease were comfortable emotions for her now, particularly around Moriarty. It was the _lack_ of fear that worried her.

As soon as her fingers touched his, her stomach exploded. She felt fireworks everywhere inside her body, and she looked at her knees, feeling out of place. She felt the red colour her cheeks when the grip on her finger tightened.

His hand jerked, and Molly was about to protest loudly as she stumbled forward. Her hand was splayed over his chest, and Molly looked up instinctively –

He kissed her.

She hadn’t a moment to react, not a moment to breathe, not a moment to register her disapproval at such uncouth and frankly _unromantic_ behaviour. She didn’t have a moment to think of anything apart from the thumb that was grazing her jawline, the pressure of his lips which was surprisingly satisfying (Molly had been kissed before. Not a single man had known how to kiss her. Oddly enough, Irene had been the only other kiss she had enjoyed as much).

His other arm was around her waist, and holding her with a strength that made her _wonder._ She was crushed against him, unable to escape. She pushed against him ineffectually, and frankly, a little half-heartedly.  

His lips were between hers – the pressure was increasing. Whatever sound came from the back of her throat was _beyond_ alien to her. She wished her heart would calm down, she was certain it was causing her a hundred different physical complications.

Finally, _finally_ he left her. She looked at him – his tongue flicked to the corner of his mouth, his eyes looking just this side of dangerous to make her worry. His eyes searched her face quickly – and Molly became aware that she was leaning just a little to the side – just enough to make her lose balance if he should leave her.

“Um,” she said.

“Thought it was best to get it out of the way,” he said with a quick grin.

“Um,” repeated Molly stupidly.

“If you’re significantly out of balance, I have found magic comes easier,” he added thoughtfully.

He left her then – and almost as soon as he did, Molly stumbled again. Almost instantly, Molly grabbed his hand, and he balanced her.

Almost immediately, the door flew open, the wind blew in – cooling Molly’s burning face, and knocked off a vase. A vase she _liked._ Promptly, the pretty lace doily she had worked on for simply _ages_ caught fire.

He smiled at her serenely. “As I was saying – being a _mite_ out of balance is normally rather conducive for magic. Perhaps we ought to move out of range from the house?”

If Molly had looked embarrassed before, she looked murderous now.

* * *

 

Her boots thudded dully against the ground.

_Thud._

_Thuftth._

_Trchh._

She looked up ahead, and Moriarty was cheerfully whistling a tune as he lead her forward. She glared at him openly.

_Th-crack!_

Molly stumbled over a small log which she had overlooked entirely. She fell face forward (as she seemed to do _frequently_ around Moriarty) and once again she found herself floating just a few inches off the floor. She looked up at him, and he was grinning at her.

“Not I,” he said, with a mock defensiveness.

She glared again at him.

“Oh, alright,” he said, he seemed to _materialise_ in front of her. He held her hand again, and Molly’s whole being seemed to explode all over again. “It was I.”

“Shocking,” said Molly loftily, as she straightened herself.

He placed a finger under her chin, and lifted her head to regard him. “Careful Miss Hooper. One would say you were flirting.”

Molly moved out of his reach, both annoyed and pleased. It was an odd combination to balance.

Molly decided the only way to avoid accidentally falling into his arms (he was orchestrating these situations, she was sure of it. If it wasn’t him, then some merciless God was having a good laugh at her expense, and that was all she could really come up with) was to walk ahead. She ran up ahead, and reached the clearing as quickly as she could. The summery smell and the flowers were making her heart feel quite light – and oddly fluttery.

She absolutely despised the feeling. For once thing, she quite felt like _smiling._ This would be highly unadvisable, under the circumstances.

“Alright,” she said. “I am _quite_ off balance, Mr. Moriarty. Frankly, I am teetering on the edge of being completely offset by whatever you throw at me. Please, I beg you, do not be the source of further disbalance – lest we fall.”

She looked behind to see that he was nowhere to be found.

“No promises, little one,” he said. Molly jumped and looked upward. He was standing amongst the branches of the tree.

Before she could shake her fist and get angry, he was shadows and darkness – floating downwards and becoming _him_ again as it did.

“Happy?” she asked. “Dramatic enough?”

“Quite,” he said, his chin jutting to the side briefly.

“Can we begin?” she asked.

“Of course,” he said smoothly. “How much control do you have as of now?”

Molly spread her fingers in front of her. She reached inside her mind, within the locked up store that was hidden in a portion of her mind. Moriarty had told her – that a lot of her power lay in how she pictured it, in how she was able to imagine it. The greater her control over how she moulded her power, the greater her overall control was.

As of now it was a bit shapeless – a bit like a glowing orb she was siphoning off from. She had decided she liked thinking of her magic as a kitchen. A kitchen which was oddly a study at the same time. A laboratory perhaps. Only as of now – it hadn’t come close to being anything close to that. She wasn’t entirely sure if it was possible to quite think like that.

She opened her eyes, and felt herself dipping into her magic, into the visualised magic that was a locked away part of her mind. She opened her eyes because she could smell something burning.

Some of the peonies were on fire.

Moriarty tsked. He snapped his fingers, and a quiet frost crept over the clearing, dropping the temperature a little and putting the fire out slowly.

Molly flushed red.

“Control, little one,” he instructed. “Think of a way to imagine your magic. I trust you remember what I said about it being useful to think of magic as an object?”

“I’m trying,” she murmured. She rubbed her hands together, and began to think. “How is your magic moulded?”

“Into my body,” he said shortly.

That helped nothing. Molly didn’t think she was much of a body person – her body frequently felt like it didn’t belong to her, and anyway, she wasn’t very keen on lacing her magic into the veins of her body.

“What did it take to imagine it that way?”

He was shadows again, and for a second, Molly noticed it – the white glow that was written into him. His face emerged from the shadows, inches away from hers. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” he said.

She looked him in the eye. “Don’t the words begin to shape the power then?”

“Almost certainly,” said Moriarty neatly. His body rematerialized. He stepped behind and spread his hands over the ground. Instantly, lines crawled over the burnt grass and flowers. It was a circle.

“I used almost nothing of words, and didn’t attempt to say _anything._ Yet the power understood what it had to do – the key here, is not to avoid using words, but to remember what words _do._ Apply them into your magic long enough, and your magic begins understanding instinctively what you mean.”

“Is it necessary for it to be words?” asked Molly.

“Yes. Would you _like_ to lose control, dearest?” he asked. “Words have individual meaning but they are also the surest ways of _control_.” He put a small stone in front of her. “The easiest way to establish control is to ensure you know how to move this exactly where you need it to go. Don’t throw it away now, sweetheart – it needs to listen to you. Can you manage?”

There was something lascivious about the way he said it. Molly rolled her eyes.

Personally, Molly wasn’t really feeling this _control_ business. It felt nebulous and rather limiting, to say the least. She didn’t see why it was necessary – and anyway, she had been casting a concealment charm all on her own – _without_ any of this control. It occurred to her than that perhaps that was why the village had been so uneasy around her.

But she ought to _try._

She shut her eyes.

Control.

It was hard to think of anything when all she could really remember was the kiss. When everything was just that – but she couldn’t afford to think of that – she might cause another fire. She attempted to imagine her magic again, but there was a wall between herself and it – she raised her hand, her fingers spread in front of her – quite unsure of why.

The stone didn’t budge.

The problem was the mirror – the concealment charm that she had written into herself, where her magic was just on a different plane. Just a different story she was attempting to hide from the people around her. And it kept it fundamentally locked away from her – she had to coax it out, and it didn’t work – not unless – not unless –

“Could we try this differently?” asked Molly. “Does it have to be a magical _orb –_ or square, or latticed into my body? My body is fairly alien to me, it would be odd to write magic into something I feel I have no control over.”

Moriarty looked at her with amusement. “It doesn’t have to be a shape. That is easiest, however. Try thinking of a toy that you had.” The crook of his smile made her roll her eyes again.

“What can you control?” asked Moriarty then. He turned around, and flawlessly, effortlessly, conjured himself a chair that seemed to grow out of the ground. The green brown twine of the branches shouldn’t have supported his weight, and Molly hated the fact that it did.

What _could_ she control?

Molly paused. She chewed her lip for a second, for another minute, and then looked up at the sky. There was a block here – something she was not able to shift from, that she wasn’t able to move past. And she had the strangest feeling that now that there were cracks, the magic would leak out anyway.

So she locked into a memory – an old one, of skipping rocks at the lake. She shut her eyes, she tried to remember, she tried to recreate that moment –

The wind was like an ocean between the trees.

There was a strange sense of fictionality that was written into moments such as this. The burden of words and literature told Molly that she _ought_ to be feeling something, to be ruminating on something. Too many words and writing on daffodils made one feel like every peony was a story waiting to be told.

When in reality she was just thinking of skipping rocks with her sister on the lake.

The mirror through which she could see her magic slowly became a little softer, a little more like jelly – a little more like liquid.

The stones around her began to float, slowly, carefully and gently in the air.

Molly continued to think on her memory.

The stones, in a synchronised step, danced around her – one hop to the left, another three small ones. The circle was tight – Molly recognised this dance – it was the Morris. There were too many partners, so they’d all paired off in smaller circles.

“Show-off,” scoffed Moriarty, examining his nails.

“I didn’t mean them to do any of that,” murmured Molly.

“Because that’s not control, Little Molly,” said Moriarty easily, blowing on his nails. “That’s your magic responding to your mood. You are letting it roam free, and it is doing whatever you are feeling. A happy memory again, judging by what you are thinking off.”

“I’m not being able to open the door without memories,” Molly muttered, frustrated.

“Understandable. Stupid, but understandable.”

Molly glared at him.

He smiled at her easily then. “Oh, no need to be offended. Most people are.”

“I suppose that makes me boring as well?” sniffed Molly.

“Delightfully,” said Moriarty comfortably. “Worry not – it’s part of your charm.”

Molly didn’t quite know what to make of that, so she said nothing.

“I suggest you take a small pause, dearest. Wielding a concealment charm for the better part of your life does make some blocks in the process.”

Molly didn’t ask him how he had guessed. She didn’t want to know.

* * *

 

 _Yes, pacing would help,_ said the house sarcastically.

Molly ignored them. She walked across the window, with her drying herbs hanging on the strings. At least Moriarty hadn’t destroyed her kitchen.

She felt in her pocket for the little stone she had kept in it. Molly picked the stone and brought it to her eye level, almost tried to will her magic on it.

She was feeling a little drained from her use of magic, and a little frustrated with the block. It didn’t let her _do_ anything – except leak magic out without a thought, and she didn’t think Moriarty appreciated that. It didn’t involve any control whatsoever – it just let her magic go wherever it wanted. She understood the benefits of not maintaining to strong a hold on her power, but she also recognised that it would not be ideal in any situation to let her mood suit her power.

She’d been wheedled to eat by the house (they really needed a Christian name, in the name of all that was Holy) – but while she was famished, she also had a hunger that didn’t quite seem to fit. She felt hungry in a way that made her feel like no food would be quite enough.

Moriarty had been amused, as always. Molly had worried that he would kiss her again, to make her feel off balance, but it seemed a moot strategy when her magic was already leaking. She needed to access her magic – she needed to open the door.

What would she have done if she was home?

The answer came to her simply, and almost thoughtlessly – she felt a little stupid for having considered it for so long. Moriarty would agree, which annoyed her.

Molly dropped the stone in her pocket again.

She charged across the room – upstairs, into the hall, and into the study.

Moriarty looked up from his book – presumably on poisons and murders; Molly couldn’t care less – and she had the satisfaction of seeing the brief expression of having been taken aback by the suddenness of her entry.

“May I use your piano?” asked Molly urgently, her hands clenched to her side, her body taut.

His head tilted gently – his fingers rubbed across his chin and he smiled gently. Molly waited for him to be done with his softly written theatrics. His hand waved with aristocratic grace – towards the piano.

Molly exhaled.

She turned to the piano – it was a lovely piano forte, with a wonderful finish. It seemed delightfully tuned, too.

She flexed her neck from side to side; pressed her fingers into one another, and sat down.

Exhale.

The fingers touched the keys. The ivory felt as smooth as butter under the tips of her fingers. She spread her fingers.

_Control._

Moriarty wasn’t there anymore. The house wasn’t either. Moriarty wasn’t there. No one was there. No one was there.

It was a prayer, softly said to insecurities that were eavesdropping eagerly. The afternoon sunlight made it hard to remember anything about the outside world, about anything outside the piano.

The first note from her finger was high – sharp against the window panes, vibrating into the air. Somewhere, Molly could smell roses.

The idea was not to let her magic spread as far as it could go – but to open the dam, and do it slowly, with _control._ She needed shape – she needed space. She needed music. Something simple, perhaps.

Her fingers began to move across the piano – stumbling a little over the keys, over how they were supposed to look in her mind. A minor, D minor, C major, E minor – and off she went. She closed her eyes, and her fingers began to glide across the keys. The music slipped from her hands, speaking into the air.

Fur Elise.

The notes were coaxing magic out – she pressed into the mirror again, and instead of being jelly – the mathematics of music helped. She knew where the barrier had broken, where the chips existed. She squeezed out her magic – white, glowing, bright –

Her eyes flew open.

Directed entirely by thoughts, she directed her magic – it felt intelligent then, a steady stream that poured out with the music, steadily making the river wider and wider.

The books that had remained a mess since Moriarty had decided to destroy the house. The pages floated into the air – _by design,_ thought Molly with a thrill. Her fingers reached the more difficult parts of the composition, and thoughtlessly, the mirror inside her head chipped away further. The magic was ebbing out, and if she was intelligent enough, she could feel it shaping around her, of its own volition, as naturally as the music -

Strands were constructing about her – it wasn’t anything quite in shape, but it was _something –_ she saw the outline of tall, tall French windows -

In Moriarty’s study, not inside the recesses of her own mind, the books were slowly repairing themselves – they began to arrange themselves in order, slotting neatly into the shelves. The larger part of Molly’s mind was concentrated almost entirely on this exercise. It was an added bonus that using magic was just one of the methods to paint the shape of magic.

The last notes of the music faded into the air, into the window panes, into the shelves. Molly’s fingers, slowly finishing the composition – carefully tiptoeing around the way Molly had written her magic, finished her spell. It was a funny little spell – all she had really meant to do was clean the study, to make sure the dam opened neatly.

And as she finally, _finally_ finished the study, she picked out the stone from her pocket, and finally began to direct her magic without needing to press at the barrier that was keeping her from it. It trickle of magic (just as much as she had intended), wrapped around her hand, and with the smallest, last bit of her energy, the stone floated up.

She looked up at Moriarty, a triumphant grin on her face.

But for once, for once, he didn’t look amused, or mocking, or even shocked or surprised. He was looking at her with so alien an expression, Molly stopped smiling and nearly asked him what was wrong.

He looked interested.

He was facing her, very far apart from her – too far across the room for Molly to feel anything other than befuddlement; and he was holding in his hand, a paper that had escaped Molly’s tidying. In the room, Molly noticed there had been repairs made to the chairs, the fireplace was suddenly crackling again (even in the afternoon sunlight), and for some strange reason, vines and ivy were growing on the inside of the ceiling.

He looked at her then, and Molly felt unbearably self-conscious.

He lay the paper flat against his palm, and raised his eyebrows.

Molly wriggled her fingers, let out a few more drops of her magic – and the very, _very_ last of her energy – thought briefly of Elizabeth – and the paper on his hand had become a small paperboat.

He inclined his head in her direction. Molly released the tension from her shoulders in that moment.

“Get some rest,” he said.

Molly left the room gratefully.

* * *

 

She had cleaned the kitchen, made dinner and served it to Moriarty in his study. The paperboat was lying inconsequentially on the mantelpiece of the fireplace, and Molly had studiously ignored it. She didn’t want to think on it.

She was using a rag to wipe the kitchen table. As she got done, she noticed the house was nearly asleep – well, _resting._ She wasn’t quite sure if they _could_ sleep.

She should really ask them for a name.

“Goodnight,” she said to the house.

There was a soft sigh from the curtains.

Molly smiled to herself.

She tossed the rag over the hooks by the stove, and slipped upstairs. Habit was now attached to the study with the flickering late evening fire.

She peeped into the room. Moriarty was standing by the window.

“Will you just stand there, then?” asked Moriarty without turning. “Rather unusual,” he added, twisting around a little.

Molly took a deep breath. “I came to say goodnight.”

He paused to regard her. “Goodnight.”

Molly crossed the room hurriedly, her eyes determinedly focussed entirely on her feet. She looked up only for a second – a brief moment, to know she was aiming right – before she pressed her lips on his.

“It helped,” she said once she had withdrawn. She cast her eyes downwards again, nerves having shot her heart entirely – but before she could run away, he’d kissed her again.

It was a blessing that _he_ knew what to do – Molly, unkissed by anyone other than those who had no other instructions other than a liberal and sloppy use of tongues – she hadn’t an idea what kisses were supposed to be. All the reading in the world wouldn’t have quite prepared her for what it was supposed to be. She had never in all her readings thought about where his hands were supposed to be – and that they didn’t necessarily have to be on her waist. That she could twine her hands into his hair, on his shoulders.

He left her eventually. Molly attempted to catch her breath – she took a few steps away from him.

“Goodnight, dearest,” he smirked.

She nodded perfunctorily – wanting nothing more than her heart to ease itself a little.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Love reviews!


	12. Grandmother's Footsteps

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello everyone. 
> 
> I really have nothing to say to myself - it's just been a really hard couple of weeks, couple of months, and so on and so forth. I would like to say life happens, but I don't even know what the last few weeks were. I'm trying my best to update regularly from this point forward, and I know people have probably lost interest because of the huge break in between updates, so I'll give a quick recap: 
> 
> 1\. Molly was kidnapped by an alliance of witches, which included Eurus, Irene and Mary.   
> 2\. They negotiated for her return.   
> 3\. Molly knows she has her own magic, and Moriarty has been training her.   
> 4\. They kissed.   
> 5\. They're going to continue kissing for a while :) 
> 
> You guessed right - after chapters and chapters of slow burn, I'm just going to indulge myself a lot for the next few chapters. Which means I'm going to indulge.

She was trying to be very, very, _very_ careful.

One word.

Pause.

Second word.

Pause.

Third word.

_Molly!_

Molly jumped, and almost instantly, the ink spread over her notebook. She looked up and glared at the house. Toby woke from his sleeping position near her feet and looked up blearily. Not a very good guard dog, Toby.

“What?” she snapped.

_Oh – did I disturb you?_ They asked.

“Yes!” said Molly emphatically.

_I was just coming to say that the squirrels are about again,_ sniggered the house.

“Did you?” asked Molly darkly. She tore a sheet of blotting paper, and began carefully dabbing it on the notebook.

_What are you doing anyway?_

“Not looking at squirrels!” Molly said, annoyed.

The house laughed again. Molly glared at them, and returned to her notebook – and they disappeared. Toby had already fallen asleep again.

She was trying her best to write a _nice,_ unblotted set of notes on the use of music in magic. Moriarty had piled on readings for her to do, and all of them were more confusing than the last, which took up a large part of her day – and there were a hundred chores to still finish. She couldn’t ask the house to do them by themselves.

She rubbed her eyes. She felt exhausted, and she didn’t have an endless store of energy for all the work to be done.

Besides, things were… tingly at the moment.

She didn’t quite know how else to describe it, but the fact was that she was waking up simultaneously dreading and excited about meeting _him._ And she was spending a large portion of her day with him – even if practice seemed to drain out everything else from her mind, somehow the end of the day was the one that took up the most of her thoughts.

Because they didn’t… _kiss,_ but there was an odd sort of - tension, an inability to say goodnight.

She was unbelievably nervous around him these days. Which is why she was even gladder for this odd day off – Moriarty had business outside the house, giving her a moment to catch up with her chores and her work and her studies and her medicine and everything that had been piling up on her head.

She felt rather like Atlas at times – trapped, carrying the weight of sky itself on her shoulder, and with no help apart from a slightly insane magician, and a very amused house.

Molly finished scribbling the rest of her notes, bookmarked her page, and disappeared downstairs to make dinner.

“Good evening to you too,” she said to the house.

_Evening,_ said the house, preoccupied with the baking shepherd’s pie.

“What do we have left to make?”

_Dessert,_ said the house.

There was something restful about whipping up the soufflé. She liked the way her hands worked when she cooked, and right now, her heart needed a bit of calming. If you did it enough, your mind got a little lost in the rhythm of things; everything you didn’t want to think about got slightly pushed to the background.

Until of course, James Moriarty crashed into her reality again.

“What are you cooking?” he asked in a sing-song voice.

Molly jumped out of her skin, crashed into one of the racks that held the spoon-stands, and promptly dropped the bowl. It broke into tiny little pieces, with her soufflé everywhere.

“Dear, dear,” tsked Moriarty.

“Now look what you did,” moaned Molly. She bent down to pick up the shards of the bowl.

“I did nothing,” said Moriarty, with a bright grin. “You’re unusually jumpy.”

She would have liked to respond that by telling him categorically that she was unused to this; that of all things she had thought to encounter while trapped in an enchanted castle, _romance_ was not high on her list; that if he really had to ask her, _he_ was always making her nervous. But she couldn’t _say_ that - because that would require a level of coherence she currently did not possess.

She went absolutely red when she had to face him. He was leaning comfortably on the counter, looking at her with amusement that she couldn’t counter in any way, shape or form.

_God, Molly Hooper_ , whispered the house in her ear. _You’re perfectly alright with kidnapping, but a kiss is your undoing?_

That was something new as well - the house would sometimes be watching her interactions with Moriarty. She had always noticed that the house spent as little time as possible around Moriarty - and here they were, whispering in her ear even as Moriarty smiled.

“Nerves,” she said shortly in response to both.

“I’m sure,” he said. “Let me help.” His hand brushed against hers, and she didn’t flinch or jump - but an electric current ran through her. She knew intrinsically that when she got back to her room, every part of her body that he had accidentally brushed would be remembered and agonised over.

Another new development: accidental touching.

* * *

 

Molly laid out the dinner - and lately, there had been a plate for herself which had appeared in the moment that she had turned to bring whatever she cooked. She didn’t ask any questions, but she suspected it was another sign of his attempt to make her comfortable. They ate in the kitchen these days, and she didn’t know why any more than anyone else. She supposed he was trying to be a good teacher - because during dinner, Molly was bombarding him with endless questions on how to do what, where he could improve - what to fix and what to not fix.

“But if I use music to control magic, you said I would lose control -” said Molly. “You mentioned that I ought to use words -”

Moriarty leaned back, the tips of his fingers touching as he regarded her. “You’re being simple, Molly,” he said. “It would be stupid to imagine anyone - even I - has any kind of _completeness_ of information where magic is concerned. All I know is how mine works - if yours works better with music, I don’t see why you are feeling so anxious.”

“Didn’t think you’d ever admit to your own stupidity,” said Molly with a grin.

“It’s not stupid to know your limitations,” warned Moriarty. His fingers tapped softly against his knee, in synchronisation - she counted the taps and the dashes, and she wondered what he was thinking of.

“What if I destroy everything in the house and kill you?” asked Molly bluntly.

“That’s a sacrifice I am willing to make for you, dearest,” said Moriarty with a wink.

Molly ignored the flood of emotion that made her blush red and stared at him. “Stop saying that, it means nothing,” she said flatly. “You are _immortal.”_

“You’re right,” he said. “Perhaps I should amend my statement: I’d kill for you.”

Molly’s eyes narrowed when she regarded him this time. “That means nothing, too,” she said tonelessly. “You enjoy killing.”

Moriarty smiled. “You know me too well, darling.”

Molly rolled her eyes. She stretched her feet - and to her utter mortification, her toes brushed against his.

“Apologies,” she murmured.

He hummed, without paying attention.

Despite the fact that they sat on opposite sides of the table, she had a suspicious feeling that he was able to find excuses to touch. She’d serve the chicken, and his hand would brush against hers - she’d stretch her legs a little and accidentally bump into his feet.

* * *

 

She cleared the table - her exhaustion was creeping up on her again. She hadn’t thought of how to manage her classes, her readings and her chores. A part of her was rebelling against the very need to do the same.

_Going to bed?_ Asked the house.

“Yes,” said Molly. “Listen, I’ve been wondering - do you have a name? I can’t keep thinking of you as ‘the house.’”

_If I have a name then I have to think of whether I’m a man or a woman,_ mused the house.

“You don’t have to,” said Molly. “You could be neither. Or both. Just give yourself a Christian name for me to address you with.”

The house hummed to itself.

Molly wiped the table, and yawned again. She left the kitchen, and found the lights of the study on. She knocked carefully, and the door opened. “I’m going to sleep,” she said, steeling her nerves.

“Goodnight, little Molly,” he said absently.

She clenched her fists, and pressed her lips to his cheek. “Goodnight.”

As she retreated behind the boundary that the door created. He watched her, and she told herself that she would count until ten before disappearing.

She chewed her lip. She’d count to ten, she decided firmly. _Ten,_ she said to herself. _Nine, eightsevensixfive -_

God, she wanted him to kiss her - no, she absolutely did not want him to kiss her - no, she patently _did -_ God. She turned around, attempting to rush away.

_ThreetwoONE-_

He grabbed her by the wrist, and she looked at him.

“How much courage did that take _this_ time, little one?” he said, with a smirk.

She huffed. “If you ever tried to _help,_ it would take lesser effort!” she pointed out.

“I’ve helped enough,” he said. “Besides - it isn’t the gentlemanly thing to do, kissing a woman who’s forced to live in the same house as you. Goodnight.”

He left her wrist, and it tingled. The door closed on her face, and Molly glared at it. “Pah!” she exploded.

_Very brave of you,_ sniggered the house.

“It’s not _my_ fault!” said Molly. “I get _nervous!”_ she stomped upstairs, murmuring to herself. By the time she had reached her bed, she was roiling with misplaced anger at herself, at him, and at her general inability to function in the face of a situation which should theoretically be simpler to manage than being trapped in a magical manor with a madman and a sentient house for company.

* * *

 

She couldn’t sleep.

It was late, and all she was thinking of was how irritated she was, or what a nonsensical situation this was, or how much she’d just like to sleep as of now.

She threw off her damn covers, and jumped out of bed. The house was resting - or sleeping - or doing something which rested it, almost certainly.

Molly didn’t bother with slippers, and she barely remembered the dressing gown that she _needed_ for the sake of propriety. She disappeared downstairs, holding a single candle. She almost certainly nearly fell in the eastern corridor, and she _certainly_ broke something when she walked through the central corridors to enter the West Wing.

His observatory room she remembered vaguely - but she didn’t think that was where he slept. She didn’t know what she intended, doing this - but she was determined to get rid of the nerve wracking anxiety.

She looked around - noticing the door that lead to his laboratory. She judged carefully - there were two doors, and she didn’t want to wake him until he had to be woken.

The right door. It was a gamble, but there was half a chance.

As soon as she stepped in, she knew it was the right place. The chill in the room was oddly misplaced, oddly uncomfortable - oddly unsure. If the rest of the west wing was whispers that had gotten lost, this room was where the hush of not having a thing to say settled. She wasn’t sure how she’d find the words to say anything, approaching the canopied bed softly.

She could see him through the canopy - he was turned away from her, and he was sleeping with the blankets reaching his shoulder. Molly swallowed, preparing herself for what will be an unbelievably disconcerting confrontation where the greatest weapon in _his_ arsenal would simply be the lack of a shirt.

He turned, and Molly considered she ought to wake him. Calmly, in the same breath as his sleep, he was now facing her. She noticed the smoothness of his features when asleep.

“Molly,” he said, and opened his eyes as calmly as he had turned in his bed. “What are you doing here?”

“I - uh - um, I didn’t mean to - I mean, I did - I’m - erm - I apologise for waking you.”

“You’re forgiven,” he said calmly. He raised himself from his bed, propping himself on his elbows.

Molly’s heart swooped down to her stomach.

She had _prepared_ for the fact that he was bare chested, but it was far more uncomfortable actually _seeing_ his bare chest. It was distracting, and frankly, it was wrong for her to be seeing it. She shut her eyes tightly, and she could _feel_ his amusement. She peered from one eye - and as she had expected, he was smirking.

She swallowed, and opened her eyes. “You - could you wear something?” she asked.

“No,” he said simply.

Molly sighed. “Fine - alright. It’s _cold -_ and you’re _scarred_ all over your chest. I _know,_ so you _cannot_ surprise me. I bound your bruised ribs, remember?”

“I wasn’t aware you were paying attention,” he said, enjoying himself immensely.

“I wasn’t!” Molly exclaimed. “That is - I was - but I - one can’t _help_ pay attention to the chest they are binding!”

“Of course,” said Moriarty, soothing her humorously. “Why are you here?”

Molly went a brighter shade of red. It was a good thing it was dark. “I - look, could you - Christ almighty, you make me _nervous,_ sir!” she said finally.

Moriarty looked at her with interest, and finally sat up in his bed. This helped nothing, and no one, because now his chest was far _more_ on display.

“I cannot - I simply _refuse_ to spend my evenings thinking about what to say to you - or what to do if you kiss me! And if I have to contemplate how much I’d like you to kiss me one more time, I shall _scream.”_

Moriarty’s hand was pressed to his lips, and she could see his shoulders shaking with the suppressed chuckle, but she ploughed on.

“I _know_ that you’re attempting to not force me - or you’re being gentlemanly, or you’re doing something wildly kind - which is out of _character,_ if I do say so myself! Behave yourself, sir!”

“And do _what,”_ he asked. “Snog you without permission?”

“ _Yes,”_ said Molly emphatically. She stamped her feet and reached closer to the bed. “I was under the impression that men do the honours! I was under the impression that I could lie back and think of England! I do not _want_ to do more romantic work! It requires effort! And sustenance! And a stomach for nerves, which _I do not have!”_

She was leaning forward, breathing like a windmill.

“Alright,” he said.

“Alright?” she asked.

“Alright,” he repeated. “I’ll do the honours.”

“Good,” said Molly, leaning back. She felt unsure about what to do with the winded energy she had inside her at the moment, but she was sure she’d find a way to expel it creatively. “A pleasure doing business with you -”

She was about to turn around, when he gripped her by the wrist (this was becoming a habit), and dragged her closer - her knees bumped against the bed, and she found herself facing him as she leaned against the bed sideways. He kissed her - powerfully, not like any of her nervously contemplated pecks. Her hands were on his chest, and it didn’t help that she could feel the curve of his muscles as his arms curled around her, his hands touching the back of her neck.

When he stopped - Molly found she was sitting on the bed within that much time, and his left leg was uncomfortably close to her.

“If you ever lie back and think of England, we are going to have _words,”_ he warned.

Molly took a breath, unsure if she’d be able to say _words._ “Understood,” she said finally.

“And Molly?” he continued. “You ought not to call your lover ‘sir.’”

Molly blushed brightly.

His head twisted from side to side in a curiously reptilian fashion. He left her wrist. “But you could. If you so wished.”

With that, he turned around and enveloped himself in the blankets. Molly swore, certain that he had fallen asleep almost instantly.

How on earth was _she_ supposed to sleep _now?_

* * *

 

She glared at him in the morning.

“You look like you didn’t sleep a wink,” he said cheerfully.

Molly blew a strand of her hair from her face, clenched her fists, continued to glare.

He brushed an invisible spot on her nose; kissed her, and said, “Good morning to you too, sweetheart.”

* * *

 

The days passed… oddly then. Within moments, it felt as though the weeks were passing in seconds. In days, it felt as if time seemed to drag across the landscape, slowing everyone and everything. April was already finished and over with, and Molly’s vegetable patch had been flourishing, despite Toby’s many attempts to dig everything in it.

The house was looking a little less tidy these days - despite Molly’s many attempts to maintain a standard, everything was exhausting her simply because she had too much work to do. There was a lot of laundry that needed doing which she hadn’t had the time for, and the kitchen was the dirtiest she had ever seen it. But she had to plough on - there was only so much the house could do.

Molly had found her routines calming in these times of constant upheaval. Within six months she had been kidnapped twice, forced into manual labour for the majority of her time during it, discovered she was magical, had also adopted a dog, befriended the wandering spirits of a house, and a dangerously controlling and terrifying magician. That she wished for a little routine was only normal.

She slept by ten in the night, she woke up early - she did her morning rounds of cleaning; made breakfast, and they’d eat. Moriarty would explain the magic for the day, or what sounds would encourage what kind of magic from her. They’d head outside, with Toby at their heels - Moriarty had warned her, with a lot of relish that uncontrolled magic might kill him.

She didn’t hold too much hope for that happening. Toby seemed magical by his own rights.

They did spells - they learned incantations, Molly learned _languages_ of magic. She learned how to articulate what she wished for without causing a rip in the time space continuum - she focussed everything she had on this, she opened her shield, and she broke through. The room inside her head developed gently - she added jars of light filled magic inside, she added a rickety desk, she built up the shelves with what she learned.

They had lunch - and then they continued well into the evening. After that, Moriarty normally had business, but he instructed her on certain things to read, or certain things to practice. After dinner, Molly poured over books in the study while Moriarty normally had business to attend to. He returned late in the night, by the time Molly was ready to turn in.

Whenever Molly had time to herself, she tried her best to do her chores and her reading - to make her notes and finish repairing the house - magic helped, she could actually do a little less time consuming labour - but it tired her almost as much as manually doing the work.

Toby woke her up that Saturday. May was ending already, and there was so much in Molly that had managed to change - she had nerves of steel, she was certain - there was nothing in her that was afraid anymore. If this was simply because of the pure exasperation of having dealt with dark magicians, she didn’t know.

When she woke up, she knew she would already had endless work to do - by the time she had put on her clothes, readied herself - she was already groaning at the thought of the day.

The fact was, she was feeling almost constant fatigue and what she needed was a few days of concentrated sleep, and doing nothing except perhaps reading a book.

The kitchen was a mess - she’d had to leave the dishes for the end, and she didn’t feel like washing them again. She knew she shouldn’t - for she should preserve her energy for the rest of the day - but she snapped her fingers, and the dishes began washing themselves. The house woke up blearily.

“Do we have some preserved peas for lunch?” asked Molly. “I thought we could make pie again.”

_Yes,_ nodded the house sleepily.

“Or perhaps meatloaf,” sighed Molly. “Alright, I should get started on the mopping. Would you manage breakfast?”

The house began to get started at once - Molly opened a jar and took out a biscuit. She was feeling pangs of hunger which ought to wait until breakfast, but the body hardly ever listened.

She ate the biscuit quickly, wiping her hands on her apron as she disappeared down to the corridor with the closet for the cleaning supplies. The wind whispered softly behind her just as she opened the door of the closet, making everything feel as icy as winter for just a second.

“Are you being dramatic again?” she asked without turning, pulling at the brooms and mops.

“Always, dearest.”

Molly turned around, buckets and brooms in hand, and shut the closet door. “It’s early for breakfast.”

“I have business to attend to,” he said. “I’ll be skipping breakfast.”

Molly shrugged.

“Attempt some of the herbal charms for growth,” added Moriarty.

Molly nodded quickly. “Is that all?” she asked. He tapped the side of his mouth briefly - indicating the remains of something eaten, his neck twisting from one side to the other, a slow smile on his lips.

Molly self-consciously touched the corner of her lips - and rubbed ineffectually. Biscuits weren’t ideal where leftover crumbs were concerned. He looked strange for a second - as if he was humoured by her, but also by himself. He licked his thumb briefly, and stepped closer. He rubbed the corner, but he was too close again -

The broom dropped from Molly’s hand as he kissed her. She was pressed against the door, and for a second - her brain had to remind her to breathe - her wrists pinned to her sides, her heart racing -

“Maybe some dessert?” he said.

Molly wrenched her wrists away from him, dragging him by the cravat to kiss him back.

“If you call me dessert again, I’ll poison your food,” she promised when she was done (she’d been getting good at this. The practice helped).

“Intelligent girl,” mused Moriarty, straightening his cravat.

Molly smiled. “I’ll see you in the evening?”

“Afternoon,” he said.

“Goodbye,” she said - he disappeared into the shadows, and she sighed.

An alone day. A nice alone day. Not a restful alone day, but a day nonetheless.

* * *

 

Molly lay on her stomach, staring at the grass. She was looking at the ants crawling - and wondering. Her bare feet swung aimlessly in the air; thinking to herself of how she had to do the magic. Toby was flopped in the shade - for an animal that was supposed to have endless energy, Toby spent a lot of time lazing about.

She touched her fingers to the soil, closed her eyes, and thought to herself: _grow!_ Grow, _grow!_

The grass tickled her fingers as it began to grow over her. She wished she could shut her eyes, allow the grass to grow over her - and disappear into the earth forever. She thought of white roses - and she pictured them in her head. She thought of their smell, of their presence - and she pressed her index finger in the soil -

_Grow!_

From her nails, the thorns of roses crept upwards. The rose peaked upwards, the petals unfolding softly - one by one, second by second. One rose, another rose, and yet another.

She wondered what it would take for her to grow a tree. For her to become the trees, for the lines of the tree to line her face - the bark of everything that _was._

Things were soft right now. The roses wreathed her hair - she felt rather like magic.

How long had it been since she had been this happy?

Not since her father had died, not since her sister had left her. Not for a long time - not since she had wrapped herself deep inside her cottage, disappearing entirely into the fog of the northern countryside. Where books had been her only companions, where she had no one - no one, and days went by without her using her voice even a little.

Molly shut her eyes again, the brightness of the sunlight creating a hazy orange behind her lids. She lay on her back, her eyes looking up to the canopy of trees.

Her best friend was a house, her constant companion was a small dog named Toby, her lover was a dark magician, and her days were spent in a large manor, maintaining upkeep. And a few months ago on Christmas, she had been ready to simply bury herself in the snow and hope no one noticed if she never returned.

Her fingers pressed into the grass.

_Grow,_ she commanded.

And she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do review!


	13. Tic-Tac-Toe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOORAY AN ON TIME UPDATE!!!!! Let's hope I keep it up.
> 
> As always, I am overwhelmed with how much I love y'all. ALSO 
> 
> S M U T ALERT!!!!!!!!

The firelight had cast the room in warm, yellowing tones. The vines that grew from the corners of the room from the time Molly played the piano had sprouted small white flowers, and she was carefully dissecting the tissue.

Moriarty was sprawled over his chair, reading something intently. His other hand was floating thoughtfully, and a small black liquid floated above it, moving in spirals, in ringlets, moving with his mood. He was concentrating intently on whatever he was reading - and periodically the shape of the blackness changed.

Eventually, he snapped the spine of the book shut. Molly looked up from her carefully dissected flower stem and magnifying glass.

He blew on the liquid and it seemed to become ash. It floated through the wind and out of the door. She distantly heard the front door open, and she could only presume it disappeared into the horizon.

She smiled sweetly at him. “A curse for the nation?” she asked.

“You’d _hope,”_ he said.

“You can cause the death of thousands but you didn’t consider getting me a microscope?” asked Molly acidly. Black liquid - black liquid, black liquid. Corruption spell of some sort.

“Microscopes are terrible for a woman’s imagination,” mocked Moriarty.

“Oh, find some other witch to burn,” said Molly with a roll of her eyes.

“Gladly, dearest, when you stop being the loveliest one in the vicinity.”

Molly returned to her flower. “Very amusing.”

When she looked up at him, he was looking at her with interest. Curious sort of interest.

“They always pick the beautiful ones first,” he mused.

“You ought to have been dead for centuries,” said Molly, scribbling in her notebook.

“You’d _hope,_ little one. You’d hope.”

She smiled to herself, shaking her head a little. She was sitting on the carpeted floor, the coffee table in front of her. Moriarty was facing her, and she almost wished to curl up next to him. Almost.

“What was that?” he smirked.

“What?” asked Molly self-consciously.

“You had a _thought,_ didn’t you?”

“Half a thought,” snapped Molly. “And _none_ of your business.”

“You’re being very tempting at the moment, dearest.” His eyes flicked downwards, to her stockinged calf legs that were peeping out from her skirt. It had ridden upwards, and Molly blushed red before covering herself.

“You’re _infuriating,”_ she informed him. “I’m making _notes._ Leave me alone.”

He didn’t respond. Molly looked up from her notes again to find him gone. She rolled her eyes. He kept doing this - kept taking her irritated orders literally, which exasperated her even more. She didn’t know how to manage this kind of constant assault on her capacity for patience. She had considered following him to his room at times, but it was a silly thought: what if he wasn’t there? Then who’d come out looking the fool?

There were only so many ways for her to come out of this having _won._ She scoffed to herself  - winning. She sounded like him.

* * *

 

She had moved on from growth spells by June. She was still not perfect, not by a longshot - but growth spells were her speciality, currently. Molly had thought all sorts of positive things because she was good at growth spells - maybe she was good at tapping into slow change, maybe she was able to press her magic and mould it into life itself, maybe she had an affinity to plants.

He chuckled. “It is most likely because you have an affinity to death. Things grow well around you, because you seemed _obsessed_ with how they die.”

Molly flushed. “A lot less romantic,” she said finally. “But certainly scarier. Perhaps people will be afraid of my affinity to death.”

“Oh, they will,” he promised. “They’re afraid of mine.”

Molly blinked. “You know,” she mused. “That’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.”

He winked.

It was true - Moriarty was good at growth of a different order: darkness, shadows, winds and weather were his speciality. She didn’t tell him this, but she had a feeling that he was good at causing death because he seemed rather obsessed with how people were _living._

His mind was interesting that way: she could see the cogs turning when he found himself interested in the way they were playing their life, and when he wanted to interfere in it. When he wanted to cause death.

Other spells required other things from her - she had hoped fire would come to her as naturally as water - but while she had the passion for it, her passion drank. Water spells were what she was good at - with brief spurts of anger causing fire almost spontaneously.

Music helped in controlling these elements. She was able to break through the glass that prevented her from using her magic, she was able to shape it and access it. And she had frequently found Moriarty’s eyes narrowed when he attempted to sense the shape of her magic. He was unbearably amused, but he was also fascinated. She recognised the expression now.

It was odd, her magic. She was learning to love it, but it came slowly - it came unfamiliarly, and it came at a price. The words didn’t always fit on her tongue, the feelings had to be found deep inside her. It didn’t work on logic, whatever this was. Or maybe _hers_ didn’t work on logic - Moriarty’s control was unbelievable.

She wondered at times where he got it. She hadn’t ever ventured to ask.

Besides - it had taken her a while to begin to get used to being around him when she knew he might kiss her.

Her heart still fluttered at the thought.

The bastard knew that it did, too. He was smug half the time, and smirking the rest.

* * *

 

Molly’s linen shift was beginning to tear at the seams, and she worried over it. She took out her sewing - she wasn’t very proficient before she had to repair the whole of the manor, and wondered if her other shift would be clean enough for her to buy some time repairing this one. She decided to put it out of her mind as of now - her dress would hide whatever was necessary, and hopefully she wouldn’t need a new shift for a while.

At times, she really wondered. She put on her pockets, and she really wondered - what would have happened if some lady had stumbled into Moriarty’s home? The frame of her bustle would have broken without her having an idea how to mend it. What if she didn’t know how to manage a corset without a maid?

 _And her soul would be gone,_ Molly reminded herself sourly.

She didn’t wonder at the house, she really didn’t. They seemed to have spawned from the horrors of all the women who were kept between the walls and the wallpaper of the house. She no longer wondered at their bitterness in the beginning, not even at they’re anger, currently. She didn’t wonder at the fact that they didn’t like spending any time around Moriarty.

June made her life simpler - no more woolly petticoats. Her work had decreased in that she had a lot more strength and control of her magic, she was able to get her chores done while doing her studies. At times, if her mind was distracted, pies would burn, or a dish would break - but there weren’t enough hours in the day if she didn’t attempt it. As a consequence, her head had started hurting by the end of the day and she frequently felt dizzy.

She chewed her lip as she began with making breakfast.

“Good morning!” she said cheerfully to the house.

 _Someone’s in a good mood,_ they mused.

“I’m allowed to be.”

 _For what reason?_ They asked crossly.

“I’m with you,” she grinned.

 _Oh, lord,_ they said.

Molly shook her head. She knew they liked it, but they wouldn’t say. She didn’t mind, not entirely.

 _By the by,_ said the house, _are you both fucking?_

Molly dropped the pot she was holding.

“Why do you ask?” asked Molly, her face purple.

_Seems like you would be._

Molly glared at the house.

 _Would you_ like _to be fucking?_

Molly chewed her lip again. “I think I wouldn’t mind. I’ve never - I’ve never done it before. But I - I like him - I like him, and I think - I think I wouldn’t _mind -_ and I’m not planning to marry. I’m twenty _seven_ \- it would be _nice_ to actually see what the fuss -”

_None of that matters._

Momentarily surprised, Molly was quiet.

_Do you want to?_

Molly looked at her toes.

“Yes,” she said.

_Then go ahead. But be careful - do not do anything you do not wish to, and call if you need._

“Thank you,” said Molly.

 _Goose,_ said the house fondly. _Don’t trust any man, Molly. Rely on no one but the women, that’s what I feel._

“I have you!”

_I’m not a woman._

“You’re a something,” Molly said gaily.

* * *

 

She had finally mastered the conjuring spells when it happened. And happen it did, because it seemed inevitable.

She was done with the potatoes, done with the peas, and nearly done with the pastry. The bread was baking comfortably in the oven. She wiped her knife in her apron, threw the potatoes into a poet with the meat in, and asked, “Could you keep an eye on that? I’ll get started on the laundry.”

Moriarty had been called on business, and Molly was taking the afternoon to finish some of the work in the house. She had a persistent headache, and she could do nothing that required her to read. She was feeling slightly nauseous and hungry at the same time, which she didn’t know what to make of.

She swayed precariously when she hoisted the laundry on her hip. She coughed when she walked through the kitchen to reach the washing tub.

The door of the kitchen opened and Moriarty entered. He placed his hat on the hat stand (Molly had shifted it from the coat room), and took off his coat. Molly paused to say good evening, and once again, she swayed.

His head tilted to the side.

She coughed again, and there was, once again, a sharp pain in her head. She felt something dribbling on her face. She touched her nose unconsciously, where a drop of blood was found.

“Dearest,” he said evenly. “Have you eaten?”

Molly nodded.

The house was watching, which should have been surprising in itself. _Barely,_ they told Moriarty. _She said she was nauseous._

Moriarty’s eyebrows were raised when he regarded the house. He crossed the room in a few strides, and held Molly’s elbows. He took the basked of clothes from her, putting it down.

His fingers touched her forehead, and at once, Molly shut her eyes.

“Exhaustion,” he murmured. He snapped his fingers, and a chair appeared close at hand. Molly sat down, as Moriarty conjured a glass of water and handed it to her.

Molly could feel anger building on the part of the house, and she didn’t have the energy to stop them before they exploded.

 _Any wonder?_ began the house scathingly. _You have her working day in, day out - and_ someone _has to make sure everything’s clean! She’s doing it all by herself while you’re off gallivanting, doing magic for god knows who. Spare some for her, would you?_

“I beg your pardon?” said Moriarty mildly.

 _She’s doing the laundry, the cooking, the cleaning, the repairs - the house is gigantic for a place with no staff to maintain it, and the garden requires constant care. I can help her wherever I can, but I’m not the one who also has to study magic, learn spells, make notes, and read whatever unsavoury nonsense you keep giving her! I suppose you think this isn’t_ work _because someone else was doing it for you, but I assure you it is._

“That’s _enough,”_ said Molly weakly.

 _No, it most certainly is not! You’ve been getting weaker and weaker by the minute, and you know it! If he wants to fuck you, he’d better do something about that. You’re doing work with him,_ and _this - either he assist you, or he should hire a staff for upkeep._

“That is _enough,”_ stated Molly again, with more force.

The house felt silent, anger simmering beneath the surface.

Moriarty was looking at Molly with yet another new expression, mingled with amusement (presumably caused by the outburst from the house), that Molly felt the urge to box his ears.

“I’m going to sleep,” she said, getting up unsteadily.

“A good notion,” said Moriarty politely.

Molly turned to look at him suspiciously.

“What?” she snapped.

“What?” he asked innocently.

“Whenever you’re polite you’re about to suggest something outrageous,” she said darkly. “Or _do_ something outrageous.”

He looked at her, the perfect picture of being untroubled. “Go to sleep, Molly.”

She shot him one last glare before she disappeared from the kitchen.

* * *

 

When she woke up, everything was dark. She had slept for a long time, and it seemed to be close to three in the morning. She got up groggily, unbelievably hungry and thirsty.

She put on her slippers and her dressing gown, threw her plaited hair behind her, and padded downstairs to the kitchen.

She wished that the house hadn’t said what they had - it made her feel weak, and small. She knew it was just unaccountable pride on her part that had wished to continue working until she was very close to exhaustion - but so it was.

When she went downstairs to the kitchen, she paused at the doorway.

Everything was clean - not just clean; _spotlessly_ clean. Molly gaped openly at the sink, the sparkling dishes, the tidied laundry.

 _“Psst,”_ she hissed. “ _Hey!_ Wake up!”

The house awoke with a start.

_Molly, it’s three in the morning, what in God’s good name -_

“You didn’t have to clean everything!” Molly whispered urgently. “My God - did you manage to get all my sewing done, too? How on earth did you do that? You have no hands!”

 _Firstly, don’t be rude,_ huffed the house. _You don’t have the ability to be a disembodied voice, but do you see me pointing it out to you all the time?_

Molly rolled her eyes.

 _Secondly - he helped,_ said the house with a yawn. _Your boyfriend._

“What?” demanded Molly.

 _Don’t be so_ surprised, _Molly,_ reprimanded the house. _You know he’s perfectly capable of managing by himself, and I wouldn’t fancy a man who relied on a woman to do his cleaning anyway. Stop coddling him!_

Molly had never been more wrong footed.

Did men ever _work_? Would they be able to do an adequate job of all the baking? The sewing? The dishes? She didn’t remember any moment of her father shelling peas, and she was uncertain if he even knew _how._  

Then again - manors didn’t talk, and magic wasn’t real either.

 _Have your dinner, goose,_ said the house, interrupting Molly’s thoughts. Molly looked at the table, and almost certainly, there were a few slices of bread and - was that _coq au vin?_ And a bottle of _claret -?_

“What on _earth?”_

 _Toby got to the pie,_ said the house apologetically.

Molly had never been more confused in her life. Here she had been, managing the house, the rations, the dinner, and Moriarty could make French food without thinking twice?

This was when it dawned on Molly that the infuriating man had crossed her yet again. She had been duped! Fooled! He was a better cook than _her?_ And he had the audacity, the _audacity_ to be the one getting her to make her awful, doughy, yeasty breads? She was going to - she was going to - she was going to be very angry, indeed! She would -

Before she did anything of the order of confronting him in her dressing gown and slippers, she ought to eat something. She was determined to be stronger when she faced him, and demand that he start cooking everyday, so help her god.

She tore into the bread with a surprising ferocity. The house, which had gone to rest by now did not notice the anger with which Molly bit into the chicken. With a generous gulp of wine, she glared at her plate, finished the bread, and waved her fingers. The dirty dishes cleaned themselves at once, and she surveyed them as they automatically floated to the crockery cupboards.

She marched to the West Wing again, finding herself irritated at needing to do this _again._

This time, she didn’t feel any apprehension when she reached the hushes of the West Wing. The light from under the bedroom door told her he was awake.

Good, she thought to herself. The element of surprise would be in her favour.

She didn’t knock, she opened the door forcefully. The room was dimly lit, but brighter, by far, than the small candle she was holding aloft. It took her eyes a minute to adjust, but her mouth didn’t need that minute.

“You can _cook!”_ she declared accusingly, a finger quivering as she pointed at the dark shape that was standing by the cupboard.

He turned around.

Molly’s breathing hitched - and she involuntarily took a step backwards. The door slammed shut behind her.

He snapped the book in his hand shut, and smiled, all of his teeth showing. “Yes?” he asked.

“Um,” she said.

He was in a state of undress - his shirt was unbuttoned, and she could see a thin sheen of sweat. She hadn’t an idea what he had been doing before this, and she almost didn’t want to know.

“You were saying?” he prodded, advancing towards her.

He was grinning at her, with all the viciousness of one who knew _exactly_ what he was doing. He was not much taller than her, but as of now, Molly had never been more tongue-tied by his _very_ imposing presence. And that too because of an _unbuttoned_ shirt.

Scars tattooed his chest - across his ribcage, a large one, which had clearly been too wide to be stitched. Smaller, stitchable ones were on the muscles of his stomach. The pink of Molly’s cheeks likely did not do justice to her emotions. His _smirk,_ on the other hand, was perfectly capable of conveying _his_.

“You’re losing control, Molly Hooper,” he crooned from a distance.

Molly distractedly looked behind her, where vines had begun to grow, and odd sorts of reddish-pink flowers, too. She clenched her fists and stopped them at once.

When he sauntered closer and Molly almost involuntarily stepped back. Her ankles pressed against the door. Oh, _heavens._

He was looming over her, and she was unbearably conscious of the fact that her heart was racing like nothing else - she was conscious of the fact that her skin had broken into goosepimples; and the fact that her fingers were shaking. She studiously decided to ignore his eyes.

This was a terrible plan all around, since it left her with steadily examining his chest. Her heart was in her throat by now.

And then, because he was a torturer of the first order, the crook of his index finger curved under her chin, and pushed her eyes upwards. She looked into his eyes then, and cursed him to the end of the earth.

“Maintain it,” he ordered.

Molly swallowed; her fingers clenched and prepared herself. His finger brushed upward from her left hand ‘till her shoulder. He touched the side of her jaw and gently pushed her face to the side. His fingers travelled down the line of her neck, to the buttoned collar of her shift. As his finger reached the collar, the buttons popped almost automatically.

He looked at her enquiringly.

“Oh fuck _you,”_ said Molly with as much vehemence as she could manage. Her eyelashes fluttered as his lips touched the side of her neck, patiently leaving bite marks that would demand a shawl.

He was smiling against her. Her fingers were pressed into grain of the door, and she shut her eyes, attempting her best to maintain control - to not let her magic run away with her. She balanced herself as he lifted her arms upwards, and she noticed that her dressing gown was tearing from the seams softly.

Her dressing gown was going to be the worse sufferer here: buttons already gone from her shift, and Moriarty being determined that he had to make _her_ perform the heat of passion more than the practice of practicality. She felt his hands as they peeled the gown off her, and it pooled around her feet. Molly blushed a brilliant, inconceivable red: she had never stood in front of a man in nothing more than a shift.

He kissed her - as surely and thoughtlessly as he would have breathed air.

Molly’s fingers left the door, reached for his jaw, and touched it delicately as she leaned in. His fingers brushed upwards from her wrist, and held the back of her neck. She felt his nails scraping her scalp, and shuddered in anticipation. His other hand was touching the collar of her shift suggestively.

Before she knew it, the balance of the door was gone. They were far closer to the bed than before, and Molly swore. The bastard had managed to transport them, _accurately,_ _while_ kissing her. Was there no _end_ to his madness? She couldn’t even stop flowers from growing when he kissed her.

He pulled back briefly, and Molly looked into his eyes.

She nodded imperceptibly.

The back of Molly’s knees hit the foot of the bed when he shoved her. She fell into the soft mattress. Her wrists were caught to her sides, on the bed. She looked at him, for he was undoing the cuffs of his shirt. She glared. 

“You’re using _magic,”_ she said accusingly.

“I have a lot of control,” he said serenely, undoing the other cuff. “And this is a very nice shirt.”

Molly hissed, attempting to pull at her bonds.

“And a _very_ nice body,” he added.

Molly’s eyes were narrow.

“Spread your legs for me, dearest,” he instructed. His shirt came off, falling down at the foot of the bed.

“What are you going to do?” she asked suspiciously.

“Do you not trust me?”

“Not even a little.”

“Good,” he said. He stepped closer. “Now come on, my love. We don’t have time to waste, and I’m not going to say it twice.”

Molly spread her legs. She was mortified at being in nothing more than her slippers and her shift.

He lifted one leg gently, took off her slipper, and maintained perfect eye contact with her. Off came the other slipper, his fingers brushing against her skin. Molly _burned_ where he touched her. Once done, his hand brushed against the inside of her thigh.

“Dear oh dear, little Molly,” he sang.

“Oh, be _quiet,”_ she said.

His fingers touched the inside of her thighs, rubbing small circles. They brushed against the lips of her cunt, and she gasped.

“Goodness me, how wet you are,” he said. His voice was low and dangerous. Molly swallowed.

Again he teased her, touching her everywhere except perhaps where it really mattered. Molly swore, her neck arching behind her, and her hands unsure of what to do in a situation where they could not move.

Before she could yell at him for denying her, categorically refuse to speak to him unless he did, his finger entered her. His hand shook rapidly, and the sensation nearly had her mind go silent - every thought disappeared. He pressed in further, rapidly, touching parts of her which she had never been able to explore or reach.

Abruptly, he stopped.

“ _Hellfire,”_ she gasped, looking up at him. “Moriarty - sir - what the hell -”

“You lost control,” he said succinctly. He got up and wandered around the room almost thoughtlessly.

Around her, wreaths and wreaths of flowers she didn’t recognise.

“And you won’t go on because of that?” she cried. “Be _reasonable,_ sir.”

“I am _perfectly_ reasonable,” he said cordially. “You wouldn’t wish to lose control, particularly when that is what gives you most trouble, would you?”

Molly abused him roundly, using a few choice words which were so uniquely unfeminine that he had to smile. She further went on to declare that she would curse him to the end of the earth, that he would remain unsatisfied and portionless for the better part of his life should he _not_ stop teasing her -

“You know, I suspect you might actually make sure that happens to me,” said Moriarty conversationally. He kneeled between her legs again.

“Again, Molly.”

Molly shut her eyes, concentrating.

It was a puzzle she was going to have to think her way around. What was she to do?

Because he had inserted his fingers into her again - his pace was fast, and Molly whimpered softly when the second finger entered. She gasped when he slowed down, and involuntarily, her body moved, reaching for him. She pressed further into him, and his finger hooked at just the _right_ moment - she was nearly there - nearly there - it was going to happen now, any minute now -

And he stopped _again._

This time, Molly fell back, screeched abuses, and promised him that when he let her go, she’d murder him.

“Yet again, little one,” he said.

Once more she concentrated. This time, the monster went below her skirt. She was about to ask him exactly what he was playing at when she felt his tongue on her cunt, and nearly fell apart.

Whatever he was doing, it was unfair. It wasn’t _done._ It was wrong, it was terrible, and why the _fuck_ could he not do _more?_ What the _fuck_ was stopping him? Good _lord,_ Christ almighty, what the _fuck_ was he thinking -

She nearly sobbed when he inserted his finger as well. She was going to cry, she was going to _kill_ him - why had her mother not _warned_ her -

“If you stop now, I won’t stop at murder,” she promised, her voice hoarse with screaming. She couldn’t see him, but she could feel him smile against her cunt. She frowned as she concentrated on making sure her magic didn’t go wild. “I’ll cut you into pieces, scatter them across the world, and _burn_ them. Worse yet, I’ll trap you into cleaning the library - the house said it needed a brush up, and you’ll be more _bored_ than murderous. Just - watch me - Oh, _Christ.”_

Her body shuddered in waves, her head falling into the bed as he let go of her wrists.

Lie back and think of _England,_ they said.

“Good job, dearest,” he said appreciatively.

“Fuck you,” panted Molly.

“Tut, tut,” said Moriarty reprimandingly. “A modicum of respect for your saviour.”

Molly’s eyes fluttered open. She propped herself on her elbows.

He leaned over her. His nails caught the cloth of her shift, and pulled. The thing became loose almost immediately (and she’d have to _mend_ it tomorrow!), and Molly assisted in taking it off.

He held her by the knees and dragged her. She was struck by how irritatingly strong he was. She propped herself on her elbows and watched him. Her legs hung from the foot of the bed.

His fingers touched her hips, gripping her roughly. She didn’t breathe as they brushed across on the hair on her cunt, as he traced her navel. She felt the tickle of his fingers as they touched her breasts, massaging them enough to bruise. He leaned forward, his teeth gently scraping her nipples.

She took a sharp breath.

He bit her on her left breast then, sucking sharply.

 _I hope I don’t have trouble wearing a corset tomorrow,_ thought Molly belatedly.

She could feel his cock through his pants, and more importantly, she could tell when the pants had disappeared in a shimmer of magic. She pulled herself together - how on _earth_ he was able to focus enough to perform spells, she didn’t know, but for her sanity she couldn’t afford to forget that she didn’t have that focus.

She made a strangled sort of sound when his cock brushed against her cunt.

“This will hurt,” he said.

Molly nodded.

The head of his cock slipped in. Molly clenched the bedsheets and her teeth together. It was a good thing she had her magic to occupy her - because when he entered her fully, she needed the distraction.

It hurt - it hurt more than she had been warned, but he remained inside her, attempting to allow her to get used to the feeling. Molly pressed her eyes shut.

He murmured something over her, and the pain went down. Molly opened her eyes again, and was surprised. “Alright?” he asked, so much more gently than she had expected him to be.

She nodded quickly.

He picked up the pace again. This time, Molly - more prepared, far less in pain - was able to enjoy the feeling more than she had expected to. She gripped the sheets of the bed again in a desperate attempt to have something to hold on to. She moved with him almost involuntarily -

“Oh _God,”_ she said fervently. “Oh God - oh god, oh god, oh god -”

“Yes, dear?” he smirked, moving faster inside her, pumping in and out with no regard for decency.

In a desperate attempt to hold something, she scratched his back with her nails, wrapping her legs around him while he stood at the foot of the bed.

“If you stop, I’ll kill you,” promised Molly, her head curling into the crook of his neck. “I’ll kill you with - with so much _imagination_ \- _god -”_

“Remind me again how you’d kill me,” he panted with her. “It’s unbelievably satisfying.”

“A short, sharp jab at your toes.” Molly swore. “You’ll - fuck - oh, god - your heart will - _heavens -_ stop and -”

She ended with a scream, and her back fell behind her as she continued to push inside her. She hadn’t managed to register the fact that he shuddered as well - his body nearly collapsing on her. Her body burned with the orgasm that seemed to take over all her senses.

The windows of the room shattered.

He rolled away from her. Molly took deep breaths, looking at the sheet of broken glass that was on the floor.

“Sorry about that,” she said, exhaustion overcoming her.

Moriarty didn’t look at her when he answered:

“That wasn’t you, dearest.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> reviews are my favourite!


	14. Cat's Cradle

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, sorry I'm a day late and that this chapter is a bit short. I struggled a lot because this is one of those transitional chapters after which we shift full gear into the third act of the story - so you know, figuring out the beats and the pace was taking a long time. One of my friends promised to waste away and go into decline if I shouldn't update, so please thank her for this chapter.

Molly bolted upright in the bed.

There was a moment of pure panic in her head, where it occurred to her that she had done something _terrible_ the night before. What the terrible was she hadn’t an idea, and there was no evidence of why it was terrible beyond the fluttering of her heart.

And when she looked to her side, there it was, the terrible thing she had done - he had disappeared, the blankets on his side of the bed tussled up.

The birds twittered, unconcerned about Molly’s emotions.

She felt small in the large bed. She wished she was back in her own room, and she wished her linen shift wasn’t damaged beyond repair. She gathered her knees closer and pressed herself together.

Apprehension. That’s what it was - she didn’t know what had happened after she’d fallen asleep due to exhaustion, but she knew she hadn’t fallen asleep under the blankets, and she certainly hadn’t fallen asleep with him beside her.

She made up her mind - her linen shift ought to be somewhere at the foot of the bed, and perhaps she could put it on along with whatever was left of her dressing gown and maybe find herself in her room.

As soon as she got up to crawl across the bed, she noticed the small tray on the bedside table. There was a cup of tea, which seemed to have been spelled hot, a croissant, some butter, and an egg.

Molly swallowed the lump in her throat.

Her linen shift was neatly folded beside the tray, and repaired. She noticed that her petticoats and dress had been brought to her as well, and she went pink at the thought of it.

 _Eat first,_ she told herself. _Think later._

She took her own advice, put on her shift, and took to the tray. It was impressive how good a cook he was - she was horrified, and a little taken aback. The eggs were perfectly made (much, _much_ better than hers) and the croissant was delicious. She even used the jam which she had made herself.

Slowly, she dressed. Frequently, she had to breathe deeply when her heart raced. She didn’t know _why_ it insisted on doing that, but it seemed very determined.

There was a small card placed on the stack of clothes. In the sloppiest handwriting she had seen, he had written:

_Take a break today._

Molly felt wrong-footed again. It seemed odd for him to insist when there would be so much work to do regardless. Clothes to be washed, repairs to be made, cooking to be done -

_He managed everything._

“What?” asked Molly.

The house smirked at her. _He told me to tell you - he’s done whatever you had to do, and he’s gone off somewhere. It’s nearly lunchtime, don’t you know?_

“If he could do it with much less effort than me, why didn’t he just _do_ it?” Molly grumbled. She didn’t like - she didn’t like how effortless he made it look. She worked hard, she worked constantly.

 _Effortless?_ They scoffed. _Hardly. You simply didn’t get to see him sweat. Just as he never saw how you sweated._ They seemed to be gleaming with satisfaction. _And oh, how he sweated._

Mollified, she turned back to the room. “I’ll take your word for it,” she said.

_You have a free day, Molly._

Molly sank into bed. She pressed her palms to her face, and wondered what she was to do with today’s time. Should she study?

_Under no circumstances are you allowed to study._

Molly rolled her eyes.

* * *

 

The afternoon sun warmed her toes. She was curled up amongst the trees, her books in hand, and watching Toby as he seemed convinced there was something lurking amongst the bushes. Molly had opened her hair today, and chosen have taken off her shoes. No one was there to see her - and she liked the feeling of grass between her toes.

She was glad he had left her alone. She needed time for her mind to settle.

And she’d slept - she’d eaten well, and she looked rather better this morning. She felt the air become heavy with a little bit of darkness, and when she looked up, there he was.

“Very picturesque,” he said, as he stood over her.

She went pink. “Sir - about today -”

“I assume you want to get back to work immediately and without break,” he yawned. “You’re really very taxing, Molly.”

“ _I’m_ taxing?” Molly asked. “You _cannot_ let my training slip! We already missed a whole day.”

“Oh, woe, you missed a _whole_ day?” he asked her. “Be quiet, little one.”

She leaned against the tree trunk she had settled down near. “Why are you here?”

“I seem to recall that someone nearly fainted in the kitchen yesterday,” he said with a cat like smile. “I was simply trying to confirm you didn’t faint this morning as well. Make a habit of it and I will ensure your death.”

Molly huffed.

“We have to talk,” he added. He shucked off his coat and settled down on the grass next to her. He looked so absurd, Molly bit back a laugh.

“What?” she asked. “If you attempt to reduce my work -!”

“Don’t argue with your master, sweetheart, it isn’t recommended _,”_ he said.

Molly crossed her arms.

“Fine,” she said. “You’re cooking from now on.”

“And you’re cleaning. I have, unexpectedly, discovered a weakness. After having been scolded resoundly over how terrible I am with a mop, I must say, I did consider just snuffing the life out of the being you have befriended - and making Toby into shoes,” he said conversationally.

Molly bit her lip. The _idea_ of the house _yelling_ at Moriarty -

“If you laugh, I will never let you see the light of day,” he said, examining his nails.

“It’s a little hard to take your threats seriously when you just got scolded by a _house,”_ Molly said with a grin.

“Oh, I see,” he said.  “The tables have _turned,_ have they? I hope you don’t regret that, little Molly.”

His neck moved from side to side. When he looked at her - to her surprise - Molly was aroused. She prayed he hadn’t realised -

“I can smell it from over here, my love,” he said softly.

Molly blushed red, and pressed her legs together.

“In any case,” she continued, attempting to distract. “You do some of the repair work. One of the upstairs windows is squeaking, a few chairs need cleaning. Oh - and the laundry!”

“Understood,” he said.

He had already gotten up, and had put his hat on. “Afternoon,” he said pleasantly, tipping his hat at her.

Molly didn’t try to feel disappointed that he left without a kiss. She got up, deciding to go inside and slipped on her shoes.

He reappeared, out of _nowhere,_ and caught her in his arms. Molly raised her eyes challengingly at him, and he kissed her.

She wished she _hadn’t_ challenged him. He always took it as an _actual_ challenge - she nearly melted in his arms, and her breathing remained shallow for minutes after he left.

Instinctually, Molly seemed to run wild. She tugged at his cravat, which came loose. He leaned back and regarded her. She bit her lip when he raised an eyebrow.

Then his fingers wrapped around her feet, and he mock gasped when he looked at her.

“But how _scandalous,_ Miss Hooper!” he said. “Did you deliberately not wear stockings?”

Molly blushed.  

Of _course_ he took it as a challenge.

He seemed to tower over her then, despite being seated. Molly searched his face, and almost timidly seemed to crawl a little closer. For some reason, he found this more amusing. The pink of her cheeks was clearly not helping her case.

She pressed her lips to his, and they parted almost thoughtlessly. Molly wished her heart would make an _attempt_ to calm down, but these entreaties were ignored.

He pressed one hand to her back, and his other one crawled up her skirt. Molly withdrew for a moment and looked up at him. “ _Here?”_ she asked, in a moment of insecurity.

“You’re the one without stockings, dearest,” he said, his voice low in her ear. “And are you expecting anyone to interrupt?”

He kissed her again, and Molly seemed to forget everything from that moment onwards.

* * *

 

This time when she woke up, he was lying on the other end of the bed. Her heart pounded for a minute, and she felt the irrepressible urge to leave. Given that she was wearing nothing under the blankets, there was no evidence to suggest that she didn’t give way to her impulses. Having made this quick assessment, she prepared to leave.

As soon as she got up to crawl across the bed, he held her wrist. Molly turned to look at him, but he seemed to be sleeping - yet his grip was firm.

His eyes opened.

“Don’t be silly,” he said.

“Um,” said Molly.

She looked back at wherever she assumed her shift was.

He tugged her, with a lot more force than she had anticipated, and she tumbled near him. “Little Molly,” he said. “Where do you think you’re going?”

“Breakfast,” she said. “I have - I have duties to attend,” she attempted to hoist herself out of bed.

He dragged her down again. Molly fell into the mattress, and he positioned himself over her.

“I’m - I’m sure you - you think -” she began, trying her best to attempt to be annoyed.

“Molly, my love,” he said with a smirk. “Be quiet.”

He kissed her neck. Molly was finding it hard to concentrate.

“Sir,” she protested. “I have to - begin -”

“For once,” he said meditatively, his lips so close to hers, she could feel them move against her. “I agree with that odious being you have befriended. Let it _go,_ Molly. I’ll do the cooking.” He paused, raised himself, and looked over her body. “Even if there’s much better eating in this bed.”

* * *

 

Some days, Molly woke up in her own room, and began with her day. On other days, she woke up in _his_ bed, and began with her day with him already gone. Most days, she was uncomfortable staying in his bed, but oddly, he seemed to insist. Molly didn’t know why and she didn’t want to linger over the reasons.

Thoughtless. That’s what her mother would have called her. So blinded by her own contentment that she did not wish to pay attention to anything beyond it. She wished, later, that she’d listened more to her mother.

As of now, she rolled over in the bed, to find him half dressed. He looked at her reflection in the mirror, and she noticed the tiny glimmer in his eyes. “Good morning.”

Molly still would go pink. “Good morning.”

“If you tease me, I’ll burn all your clothes,” she said crossly.

“I would _never,”_ he said, gasping audibly.

Molly turned away. He had already put on his neck-cloth and his shirt, and seemed to be waiting on the cravat. She was a little surprised he dressed himself instead of using magic.

“Why _don’t_ you use magic?” she asked. “And where are you going?”

“Out, to answer your second question,” he said with a hint of a smile. “And because good clothes, Molly Hooper, deserve proper care.”

Molly got out of bed, wearing nothing more than her linen shift. She crossed the room, and faced him when he turned from the mirror. Carefully, she arranged his cravat.

“I don’t know what you call proper care, but your valet would have tendered his resignation a long time ago,” she said thoughtfully.

She wasn’t paying attention to his face for fear of blushing, but she could hear the smile when he spoke. “Rather lucky I don’t have one.”

“Improper breeding, I would call it,” she murmured.

His finger touched her chin and forced her to look up. “And what of your breeding, little Molly? Why do you know how to arrange a man’s cravat?”

She glared and blushed in one go. There. She’d been trying to avoid blushing. She really _was_ going to end up murdering him.

“I had an indulgent father, sir,” she said, her tone clipped.

“I’m sure,” he sang. “Use volume five of Principles of Transportation and Transferrance. Good day.”

Molly would have been more cross had she not felt instantly cheerful at the prospect of transportation spells. She’d been very excited about _those._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And SCENE. After this, last act, guys. LOVE YOU ALL, PLS COMMENT I LIVE ON THOSE.

**Author's Note:**

> So - HAVE AT IT. TELL ME WHAT YOU LIKED AND HATED. 
> 
> And if at any moment the consent part is bothering you please let me know.


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